A Touch of Warmth
by Neo the Saiyan angel
Summary: Miriam Possible, a wanted criminal in her home country, is questing for her innocence. Yet a simple teatime truce instills a touch of warmth she hasn't felt in years, and the unthinkable possibility that going back might be the last thing she wants...
1. Chapter 1

**Authors' Forward**

Welcome to the fic! This is a collaboration between Neo the Saiyan Angel and kgs-wy. It takes place approximately one hundred years before the Kim Possible series, following a path that explains, at least in part, what happened to Miriam Possible after she disappeared following Bartholomew Lipsky's attempted theft of the Electrostatic Illuminator.

It is also a prologue to another fic we're currently working on, which will take place during the time between the episodes "Larry's Birthday" and "Graduation". We hope you enjoy the fic, and please let us know what you think! Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Disclaimer is at the bottom...

**MP MP MP MP**

_December 17, 1905_

Bartholomew's breathing was erratic as he ran for the safety of the crowds in Naples, Italy. Things had gone very, very wrong in his plan. His failure to obtain the steel formula a few months prior was just the beginning of misfortune for him. It wasn't that his plans were _flawed_. No, most certainly not! The problem came in the form of a variable which he was unable to account for, no matter his scheme.

His initial attempts at theft were not simply for the new type of steel which never corroded. It was also for everything related to it, including the furnaces and the ideal temperatures. Those attempts were foiled out of what he thought was carelessness. Now he had simply been after the formula itself, thinking he had accounted for everything possible. That one variable still evaded computation.

Said variable had sent her second after his bodyguard after the plot fell apart. A strange move to him when she made it as the fool detective couldn't keep up with Miss Go in a fight! Granted, the small man could, surprisingly, take more punishment than a maddened cape buffalo, but it seemed madness. Unfortunately, now he saw the method to her madness, and far too late to do anything about it!

She was skipping the grand fight between his bodyguard, instead going straight to trying to apprehend him. Not a very sporting move, but he had to admit that she was dangerously close to being able to capture him red-handed. After all, even if the message had been written by an Italian trained in the workings of a spy for the purpose of espionage, the ink used was written with an ink used specifically by British secret services. It had been a deliciously clever ploy on the man's part, as it would point to a British spy as the thief. Unfortunately for Bart, it would implicate him as well, and it would not do to be caught with such on his hands instead of the Italian who still eluded him!

Very reckless on his part. It was the proper villain etiquette to do as such, but he really had been much too foolish.

Now he was a mere dozen steps from disaster. He could hear Miriam behind him doing her best to try and cover the distance. If he were a decade younger he could have maintained the distance indefinitely. But as he was not, she was gaining.

"You won't escape!" Bart heard her gasp out as she followed. He smirked at that; she was clearly not a runner by trade or tradition. Or by clothing style, considering her high heeled boots and the dress she wore. Otherwise she would not have wasted the breath to say that. In fact...

The idea, while a tad shameful, would at least help to ensure his escape. His mental map of the area confirmed that he was but a few back alleys away from the main marketplace. He just had to keep her off of him for that much longer.

"Oh?" he said with an exhale.

"You doubt my word?" Mim huffed, her footfalls sounding nearly right behind him. "I...will stop you!"

"But you have," the escaping villain stated, once again in one exhaling breath.

"You are still...free. Justice must...be served! Scoundrels...like you need stopped," she growled behind him. Her footsteps sounded a bit farther behind, a rewarding sound to Bart's ears.

"And you will do so?"

"If I must! You will...not win. I will see to that!" With the last sentence the lady seemed to gain spirit and charged forward. He could feel her starting to grasp at his coat.

In a desperate attempt to distract her Bart cried, "So you are Justice?"

The outrageousness of the statement served its purpose. "I am not Justice! I...am not even a represen...tative. My reasons for trying...to catch you...are my own. You are a foul...man who has only his...own desires in mind. Selfishness...should not...be rewarded!"

With each breath she took Bart heard the loss of air and, in relation, a loss of speed. Soon he found himself once again a dozen steps ahead of her. To his own burst of relief he also saw the bazaar just a few buildings ahead.

"Yet you seek me out for your own ends! As such, my goals are no more selfish than your own!" the villain protested.

"I see your game!" Miriam yelled to him. He took that as her ignoring his point, though it served to end the discussion. Shame she had caught on so fast. It also piqued his interest; who _was _this girl? He had only known a few women of such fortitude and quick wit, and truly hadn't met a woman as intelligent and grounded since his introduction to Miss Go!

She pulled a valiant effort to catch him, but it was in vain. He smiled in triumph as he found his escape clear in front of crowds ahead seemed to invite him as he made his way in.

"My apologies, but goodbye!" he called behind him before melding into the crowd. Bart did his best to control his speed and breathing as he walked into the ebbing and flowing traffic. Slowing and matching the others around him made him less conspicuous, and his controlled breathing kept him from being noticeable by sound. He only hoped that his sweaty face was not as obvious as he felt it was.

His escape route would lead him to the harbor where Miss Go would hopefully be waiting for him with a chartered boat. His favored alias, Sherlock Adler, had rented it the day before to take them to the secret cove he'd hidden his new airship in. His eyes glazed over slightly as he thought of the beautifully designed ship he had purchased back home. And, of course, modified himself! The beautiful lines, the exceptional craftsmanship… Everything about it was enough to set the heart of any man of science aflutter. _Ah, yes, my airship. It is so much better than that _balloon_ I used in the United Stat-..._

His thoughts were cut off quite painfully as, in his distraction, he ran smack into another man about halfway down the block. Both he and the man fell on their rumps, and he found himself blinking away the painful blow. He quickly stood to his feet, dusting himself off and extending his hand to the man, who seemed to have come out the worse for the collision.

"I'm terribly sorry," Bart began in fluent Italian as the man stared at his hand and accepted it without a second thought, "I am a bit distracted, an-... _You_!"

"You!" the man parroted back, his eyes widening as he realized Bart's clenched fist was barreling straight at his jaw.

"That was my wife you slept with!" Bart ad-libbed, allowing an angry scowl that had nothing to do with his words to cross his face. He smirked as his punch landed flush with the angle of the man's jaw, sending him easily into unconsciousness. He glanced around and growled in a heated tone, "Private business..." He quickly dragged the man into an alley, earning a few understanding growls from some men that had overheard the brief conversation.

"Now, Mr. Giordano," Bart chuckled, "Let's see what you have here..." He opened the satchel pouch that had been around the man's shoulder and rifled through the contents, almost crowing aloud when he realized what he'd found.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Giordano," the villain all but cooed, a huge smile crossing his features, "So thoughtful of you to carry your work around with you. In full, no less!"

He was about to let loose with a devious laugh when a voice from the street made his breath catch in his throat.

"Damn you, Lipsky!" Slowly, Bart looked back and spied Mim just at the entrance to the alleyway, leaning back against the corner to catch her breath. With as much care as he could, he secured the satchel around his own shoulder and stood, then dashed off down the alleyway, toward its intersection with another.

"Lipsky!" he heard from behind him, and the stomp of heavy, tired feet trying to follow him, but he had caught his breath, unlike his pursuer. He allowed himself a triumphant chuckle as he heard her stumble and curse his name again, and only slowed his pace when he was safely ensconced within another crowd. _Well, this changes everything... I will have to arrange rail travel for Miss Go, and send the satchel, with blank papers, along with her... She _should_ be able to avoid Miss Possible and Mr. Stoppable, and the circuitous route will give me time to take the plans via airship to Le Mans, and meet with Prince Dakkar there..._He walked on, making plans and paying more attention to his path.

Back at the alley, Mim was left in a quandary. She could leave the man Bart had been chasing, and possibly have something bad happening to him on her conscience, or she could stay here and await his waking, and help him. Her conscience won out quickly, and she bent over his still, but breathing, form to slap his face lightly. "Come on, wake up!"

After a moment of this, and progressively harsher words from Mim, the man sat up with a start, almost slamming his head into Mim's. Her quick reflexes saved them both from an ironic collision, and she quickly covered his mouth with her hand. "He's gone, and we're going to have a long talk about what he was after!" she growled before catching herself and sighing slightly. "My apologies, but I am under a bit of stress."

"It is quite alright, Miss Possible..." Mim's eyes narrowed dangerously, and the realized he'd made three mistakes. First was the fact that he'd been caught off guard enough by Lipsky to be knocked unconscious. Second was that he'd kept the satchel with him. And, worst, he'd let his home accent slip, and the dangerous glint deep in her eyes made him swallow involuntarily. "I... Remember reading about you and your friend Jonathon Stoppable helping Hercule Poirot..."

"Fine," Mim said, standing but not offering the man a hand up and addressing him in surprisingly fluent French, "But we will discuss this in a civilized manner. As I believe you would not like me becoming uncivilized, no?"

"Very true, _mademoiselle_..." he muttered back in his native tongue. He stood swiftly after she backed off slightly, rubbing his sore jaw with a rueful grin, "Ah, the things I do for my family."

**MP MP MP MP**

She woke with a start, sitting bolt upright and clutching the bedding to her form. She quickly looked around the cramped, private sleeping quarters, as if expecting… Someone to jump out and attack her. She blinked a couple times at the bright light filtering in through the drawn curtains, glancing around her. The room was Spartan, but the few items that were there were of a luxury bent. It had a small bar, which she had used with abandon the prior night, as well as a small partitioned area for changing. There was also a key wound wall clock, and it indicated it was almost a quarter to eight in the morning.

After looking around, she began to take in the creaking and clacking from underneath the bed, as well as the distant chugging of a powerful steam engine and relaxed slightly. _We are still on the train, then…_The thought gave her pause, the plurality of her statement taking her aback.

When she felt a stirring to her left and the prior day's activities of chasing Bartholmew Lipsky, and then the prior _night's_activities, hit her full force. She blushed slightly, sighing in a strange mix of contentment and anxiety as she thought back to a half drunken conversation with him the night before. Her bedmate muttered incoherently after a moment of glancing around himself, and she took in the bleary eyed, blond headed face of her best friend. And now, apparently, occasional lover, if their conversation - not to mention actions - from the prior night was any indication. "G'mornin', Mim…" he muttered, smacking his mouth to try and clear the gumminess from his tongue.

She didn't say anything for a long moment, only stared at his face and the sleep filled eyes trying desperately to focus on her, so different from the clear, sure gaze of the prior night. She remembered it clearly, and thought back, running the conversation back and forth in her mind.

_"Jon… I…" She'd leaned in, tears falling from her eyes as the stress of the past months took over, "I desperately need to release this… This _tension_ within me… Before it destroys me."_

_"Mim, I love you," Jon had whispered, "But you do realize not in this way."_

_"I know, Jon," she had whispered just as softly, "But… I do not want to become some harlot, or sell myself as Rockwaller and her ladies do to men to release their tensions. Such a silly concept, I'd thought once, but now?" She'd sighed, "I… Wish only to do this with someone I trust, and love, but I am not ready to love like I loved my Albert. I am only recently able to talk about his loss, and… You are far from unattractive, and I know that _I_ am comely. And I know you desire me, at least physically, if not romantically."_

_"I guess it'd be a lie if I said otherwise," Jon had laughed at his own self-depreciation, before his tone sobered significantly, "Are you sure about this? I know you haven't slept well, and if this... Situation is bothering you so strongly, perhaps you do need it, but I _have_ to know, are you _truly_ su-..."_

_"Yes!" she'd nodded firmly, a gentle smile of apology for interrupting him lighting her face, "And... I am unable to conceive children, Jon. You know my Albert and I tried for a few years before he died..." Her smile had brightened as he'd nodded and reached out to touch her face gently, cupping his hand to her face and kissing his palm in a manner that was anything but coy, "And frankly, you're right about my sleeping, and the stress. I _desperately_ need good sex."_

"Good morning, Jon," Miriam Possible sighed, shaking herself from her memories and dropping the bedsheets. When his attention turned to her bare bosom, she reached over to ruffle his hair fondly, "Sleep well?"

"More impor'an'ly," Jonathon Stoppable slurred, blinking slowly and rubbing at his sleep fogged eyes to clear them, "Did you?"

"Quite well, thank you." Mim stretched unabashedly, her slight breasts lying enticingly along her athletic frame. She leaned forward and glanced back at Jon, a rueful, yet hesitant smile upon her face, "Are you alright with…" she gestured between him and herself, not agitated, but obviously concerned, "All this? Being a lover of occasion to me, but no promises of more than our friendship?"

"Miriam..." Jon sat up fully, sleep forgotten by the words and the concern, even worry he heard in her voice. He reached over and enfolded her in a hug, ignoring the stirring such proximity engendered, "As I said last night, I care for you, love you even, as a _friend_. And if I can help you, in any way, you have ever had but to _ask_."

"As I feel for you, Jon," Mim sighed slightly, "I know you, though, and know there is more left unsaid with such a bold statement."

He pulled back and waited for her to nod in agreement, and continued with a slightly melancholic smile, "Would I like more? I… I must admit that, yes, the idea is appealing." He held up a finger when she opened her mouth, the suddenly stern look in his eyes belied by the expansive smile that came upon his face, "But it is, and always _will be_, for you to decide if it'll ever be more than friendship and, how'd you say it… 'Occasional physical dalliances to help both of us with pent up pressures and desires!', I believe?"

Mim's smile relaxed, and she let out a girlish giggle despite her own, personal revulsion at how she sounded when she did, "That is exactly what I said, Jon." She compulsively leaned over and planted a gentle, friendly kiss on his cheek, "Now, I do not know about you, but I feel rather famished." She gently rested a hand on his still covered leg, an eyebrow climbing towards her disheveled hairline as she realized he was more awake than his appearance led her to believe. A smirk slowly crossed her shapely lips, and her voice dropped slightly, "Or would you rather earn the break to our nightly fast?"

"You're insatiable, Mim!" Jon groaned in a melodramatic manner, before smirking himself, "No wonder Albert was always so tired looking in the morning." The comment earned a fond, reminiscent chuckle from Mim as she leaned down and began planting intense kisses down his fit, surprisingly muscular body…

**MP MP MP MP**

_December 24, 1905_

"Come, Miss Go!" Bartholomew Lipsky piped in an enthusiastic, even happy tone, "There is much we must do today!"

"Ugh, must you always be so foolishly happy in the mornings?" Aglaya Go growled at the well dressed German aristocrat before taking a long sip at the small cup held daintily between her thumb and forefinger.

"Was your sleep restless, Miss Go?" Bart asked in a seemingly concerned tone, before his tone became serious, "Perhaps your restless sleep is why you did not realize that woman, the reporter, what was her name?" He pondered for a moment before nodding, "Oh, yes, Miriam Possible! Not to mention her lapdog detective, Jonathon Stoppable… You remember them, the ones who foiled my plans in America? The ones who have become such a nuisance even here in Europe?"

"Yes," Miss Go grimaced as her right hand unconsciously went to her cheek, gently rubbing the spot where she'd had a bruise for almost two weeks following the fight atop the giant Ferris wheel in Middleton, "I remember them, why?"

"Why, according to the passenger manifests of the steam ship I thoughtfully booked you passage on when we had to go our separate ways in Maryland," he held up a telegram, where he had supposedly gleaned the information, "They were on the same ship as you! Which, reasonably, explains how they found us in London when I began following Mr. Giordano."

"Interesting," Miss Go drawled lazily, as if awaiting his point.

"Similar manifest checking showed they also followed you from London to Naples. I had wondered how they had kept up, considering I had left London to France to pick up my airship, and picked you up in Gibraltar. And, according to the train's passenger manifest, they followed you not only from New York to London to Naples – while catching up to us after an airship voyage for over two thirds of that leg of our journey, mind you - but form there to Paris, and, _somehow_, managed to get on the _same train _as you from Naples to Paris!"

"I don't kno-..." Miss Go began sharply, but Bart interrupted her just as sharply.

"Ah, ah, Miss Go, I'm not finished!" His gaze darkened slightly, a mix of anger, frustration and curiosity easily discernible, "I am curious as to how you could explain how you managed to miss a beautiful red-head and a prim, stylish presented young detective from that American agency you detest, hmmm?"

"My apologies, Lipsky!" Aglaya snapped. Her tone angry, but Bart let it slide, as the woman's tone held a strong note of sincerity, "But you _know _I was on the run from the blasted Pinkertons that Possible's lapdog sicced on me to New York. I stayed in my cabin until I was in London!"

"And why-…" Bart began, but a frustrated harrumph from Miss Go stopped him.

"It was in case they had international warrants!" She paused and took a deep breath, calming herself before continuing. "And you're quite right, my sleep from Rome to here _was _restless."

"And why so?" Bart's skeptical gaze drew a grunt of annoyance from the woman.

"Because the newlyweds in the next car kept me up most of the night, and sometimes half of the morning!" She smirked evilly as the aristocrat blushed slightly, and nodded, "Yes, the woman seemed quite insatiable…" She glanced at her drink and drew it to her lips, downing the strong, bitter black liquid within in a single gulp, "That's why I've had four of these Italian coffees."

"You do mean, of course, espresso?" He sneered slightly as he continued, his tone falling into the one he reserved when speaking about the autocrats bent on ruining the world, "Or _caffè crema_, as those slavish to snobbery would say." He considered her words as they left the cafe, finally nodding as he accepted her story, albeit grudgingly.

Of course, his snide comments had granted him time to consider her explanations and reactions. Bart had worried at the possibility of Miss Go possibly becoming a secret agent for group, or possibly the reporter and her lapdog, what with the ease she was followed. But she seemed sincere enough, and his checking into their travels told him that it was one of the more comfortable travels to take. It could even be that one of their opponents had a fear of heights, which necessitated a non-mountainous route. Or, more disturbingly, that they had a friend in Italy that had informed them of Miss Go's route to Paris.

He pondered a moment as Miss Go managed, somehow, to both relax and appear more attentive and awake at once. With a minute nod, he decided to accept that it was simple coincidence all-around. "Perhaps that does indeed explain why you have been out of sorts… My apologies as well, Miss Go."

Miss Go nodded and sighed as she felt the first tingling of caffeine buzzing within her system, "So what are we doing today, Lipsky?"

"Why, my dear…" Bartholomew grinned in a decidedly maniacal fashion, "You are going to distract a certain Pinkerton agent for me, by implying you have the documents detailing a new steel formulation and mass production process, and I am going to attempt surveillance on Ms. Possible and hopefully her lapdog as well!"

**MP MP MP MP**

Miriam sighed as she made her way towards the _Arc de Triomphe_. She was certain that, to locals, it was obvious that she was at least an expatriate, if not a pure tourist. Although, as she looked around, she guessed she blended in better than she might have during a warmer time of year. Her greatcoat - which she had pulled tightly about her lithe form to keep the cold winter wind from further chilling her - was rather stylish and in keeping with most of those she saw walking along the _Avenue des Champs-Élysées_.

At least the directions she had obtained from the concierge were clear enough for her to follow! The problem came with the use of monuments for directions. Especially a nuisance considering that a few inches of snow had fallen over the evening. But some monuments, such as the _Arc de Triomphe_, would be unmistakable, even with feet of snow burying the city.

Granted, it wasn't much of a problem for Mim, simply annoying. It was - as he had complained in his familiar, jocular manner - more of a problem for Jon, as he did not understand French. It hadn't seemed a bad idea at the time to split up; they could cover more ground, and could easily recognize the bigger landmarks by sight.

There was also the fact that, if he was indeed coming to Paris to handle the blueprints, there were two possible areas which Bartholomew and Miss Go could have taken them. Splitting up would cover them both. But now that they had done so Mim worried that, perhaps, Jon may get himself into trouble. The industrial section was a rough and tumble place, and as strong and resilient as the man was, he was _not_a fighter of particularly high caliber.

That observation made Mim doubly worried, especially considering the ghastly affairs which had gone on just getting to Europe. _Yes,_ she concluded to herself with a moue of worry, _I think it is a definite, well-founded fear. How in the world do we continue to find ourselves in these situations?_

Oh. Right. Hunting down Lipsky and forcing a confession from him. That man seemed to exude trouble like some type of poison, and was greasy enough to get out of it at a moment's notice! A surprise Miss Go hadn't discovered a way to use it for her own purposes. Shaking her head, Mim looked to the directions again. The paper said to look for the collection of cafes which were clustered at a three-way intersection…

"Over here, Miriam." Mim crumpled the paper in an angry fist. There was only one person whose voice could be so charming, yet repulsively confident at once.

"Bartholomew Lipsky!" she hissed under her breath. Mim clenched a fist as she rounded gracefully in the direction he had called from. Sure enough, the man in question was standing just outside the entrance to a stylish looking café.

It took her aback to see him looking so expectantly at her, as if he had actually been _waiting_on her. He wasn't looking at her, his attention focused on a pocketwatch, but his verbal invitation and posture said enough. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought that there was a scheduled lunch date which he was waiting on.

_That lunch date being me…_she thought with a deep ire that managed to surprise her. Forcing herself to calm her anger, she took stilted steps toward him until she was standing just down the steps from him.

"I had wondered when you would arrive. I had set aside a window of fifteen minutes for you." He put his watch away in the front breast pocket and gave her a grand smile – a painfully theatric one in Mim's opinion - as he beckoned to a nearby chair. "Come in, sit with me for some coffee and a light brunch."

It took her a few moments to process his request. Once she had, it was almost too ludicrous to even consider. "You can't be serious!" she gaped. "Why should I bother to drink tea with you? For all I know, it may be poisoned, or filled with foul medicines! And that is _without_ mention the wrongs _you_ have committed against _me_."

Bart's expression screamed surprise, which, Mim felt confident, was a sham as well as a small amount of hurt. "Miss Possible, you think so little of me? I, as a proper gentleman, would not stoop to such pitiful attempts to defeat so worthy a foe!"

"It may not be you who does the deed," Mim responded in a low voice, remembering the rather cruel turn of events Miss Go had thrown at poor Jon in New York City. Who know how debilitating a light digestif mixed with a colon cleanser could be?

He hummed in recognition of her comment. "I can assure you that Miss Go is not here," he said earnestly, motioning to the café once again. "I merely wish to spend some time with my foe." When she did not move, he sighed. "What must I do to prove that my intentions are not foul?"

Miriam huffed, barely resisting stamping a foot like an impatient horse as she took the time to think on his offer.

_You are in a precarious situation, Miriam…_ she counseled herself. _You cannot do anything until he makes a move. As we found out in Italy, he has his family's rather powerful reputation supporting him, even in France. You are only an American reporter, one wanted in your own country, although Mr. Poirot did assure you that you were _not_ wanted anywhere in Europe for the theft…_

She narrowed her eyes as he stood patiently awaiting her decision, and pursed her lips as a realization struck her, _He could sit here all day if he wanted, just waiting for you to tire. He could possibly even call the police right now to report you following him, and with his family connections, it would be taken seriously…_ She sighed as unobtrusively as she could before nodding minutely, _At least if you are here you have a chance to thwart his scheme, whatever it may be… And you can get out of the chill for a few moments!_

"I suppose," she began slowly, watching him carefully, "I must admit, however, that my worries would be assuaged if you were to partake of the same foodstuffs I will."

Mim was rewarded for her observation; not for any slip-up in villainy, as it were, but in his surprising expression of delight. Instead of the grandiose, rather death's head like affectations she had seen in Middleton and later in Naples, it was instead a small upturn of the lips. She barely kept her expression sober as his eyes twinkled in some hidden merriment and a light chuckle snuck out of him. It didn't last more than a few seconds as he reassumed the façade of a villain, but it was enough for her to grasp at just what he was truly like.

The awareness surprised her so that she had a sudden urge to research his past, wanting to understand how a man who could have such warmth hidden within could turn to villainy so easily. "I see," he said with a knowing tone, not realizing the sudden change in Mim's posture as a large, toothy grin overtook his face. "Then that is what we shall do."

Miriam stood awkwardly for a few seconds as Bart opened the door and stood aside with a bow. Mim noticed that, despite being nearly forty years old, he was a powerfully built man as muscles bulged and stretched some portions of his suit's jacket. "Our seat is straight back, the last on the left; my coat is draped over my chair, I'm sure you'll recognize it?"

She nodded and made her way toward the empty table. She got there before him, and pulled her seat out by herself, first checking it over. Satisfied that he had not stooped so low as to leave poisoned tacks or similarly low form of attack, she removed her coat and set it over the back of her chair. She then sat with an air that mixed dignity and propriety that indicated she was a progressive woman who did not expect to be coddled. She pulled her seat close to the table and straightened, just caught a look of concern flash across his face.

"Is something the matter with you now, Bartholomew?" she asked, as if without a care.

Realizing he'd been caught, Bart put on a genuinely charming smile. "My apologies, but I was wondering which beverage you were going to order."

"Tea," Mim answered curtly as Bart sat, almost causing him to fall from his seat. He cringed at her blunt response; an expression she felt was as overinflated as that of any stage performer. She took a tentative sniff of the air and allowed a bare smirk to grace her features, "Chamomile, specifically."

"Would you be amenable to coffee?" he asked tentatively, "I would rather not drink tea at the moment, and drinking tea at the same time as coffee is not a pleasant thought."

It only took her a moment to decide her response. "No I would not. You are the one who desires this meeting. The least you could do is allow me my drink of choice."

"As I thought you would answer," he sighed before waving a waiter over.

They sat in silence for a minute as they waited for the order of tea to arrive. The air was thick enough to have made a pleasant soup as Mim eyed Bart suspiciously. Her suspicion redoubled when he became much too intently focused on a chip in the table. Thankfully, the waiter did nothing more than bring them their order and leave. Either he was an intuitive lad or their shift was nearing its end, she concluded.

Miriam waited but a moment for the tea to cool before pouring a cup for herself. It was Earl Grey, but had a healthy addition of chamomile. She guessed she should have allowed her foe to pick at his leisure, but she had been drinking alcohol a bit more than she preferred, having lacked her favored tea. Nonetheless, the choice was unusual; to her knowledge he wasn't of any English descent, his family instead being Germanic.

Her urge to research his past solidified into determination in that moment. She didn't actually _know_ anything about Bartholomew Lipsky save for what she had discovered from her contacts on this side of the Atlantic. Looking at him over her hot cup of tea, she thought on him. Mannerisms, quirks, plots, personality... They provided a picture for her, but as to the history behind the man she hadn't a clue. _Perhaps I can gain a starting point during this conversation?_She lowered her tea after taking a healthy sip of the hot liquid, and asked, "What is it you wanted this meeting for, Lipsky?"

"What do I want out of this meeting?" Bart breathed out slowly, leaning back and considering the question with steeped fingers. After several seconds of silence save for a light sip from Mim, he answered, "I want to know some things… About the wrongs which you say I have committed against you. Pray tell, what could I have done to earn your scorn, and such dogged pursuit?"

Mim pursed her lips, carefully lowering the tea to the saucer and setting both back to the tabletop. She folded her hands in front of her and favored the man across from her with a stern gaze, before biting out a quiet, "Surely you heard that I am now a wanted woman due to your actions?"

Bart blinked in shock and Mim was surprised that it was unfeigned. She cocked her head slightly as the man reached up to smooth his pencil thin moustache in thought, before he took a deep breath and shook his head, "I had not, Miriam. Though I have no idea as to why you would have been considered the guilty party, what with the number of witnesses to the event, I must say that you have my sincere apologies."

Miriam opened her mouth to reply hotly to his comment, but he raised a finger, "I must also say that I can do nothing for you, my dear. As I did not steal the dingus that I was after, claiming guilt would be most… Problematic. Especially considering my lineage…" He surprised Mim once again by grimacing, "My family, most especially my mother, would be quite… Put out, were any claim of guilt to be made against my person. And she would put much pressure via diplomatic channels to bury any accusations, even with a written and signed confession from me."

"Really…" Mim's voice was cold, but her gaze hot with anger. Bart raised his hands in a gesture that seemed designed both to ward her aggressive attitude off and apologize at once.

"Overall," Bart drew out after Mim's glare cooled slightly, "I have to assert that it would cause more problems for both of us, and quite probably result in a worse punishment for you than any you could receive for the failed thef-…"

"If it failed, then where _is_the Electrostatic Illuminator, hmmm?" Mim asked sharply, and Bart's eyebrows rose towards his hairline.

"It must be at the site of the fair!" he protested, his voice as sharp as Mim's, "It dropped from my hand before Miss Go and myself were carried away by the wind."

"I…" Mim took a deep breath and calmed herself, reaching out to pick up the tea and take another sip. "I see…" Mim took another long sip of her tea, and glanced down into the cup. Seeing it was essentially empty, she poured another cup and then returned her gaze to Bart. "Now allow _me_a question, Bartholomew." Her attempts to prevent the heated argument from affecting her quickly began to fail her, thus she asked in one breath, "Why do you act as an imbecile as often as you do when you are clearly more intelligent than you let on?"

Bart flinched at 'imbecile', but confusion quickly took place of dismay. "I am not quite sure I understand."

"Oh yes, because I certainly believe that!" She let some anger seep into her voice along with a touch of sarcasm. "Stop playing me for a fool. I know you are pretending to be a villain. It was never more obvious than it has been simply sitting here talking with you. What I want to know is why you would make a fabrication of such villainous actions?"

"My intentions are anything but a fabrication, Miriam!" He sniffed disdainfully at the entire concept, and smirked slightly at Mim's disbelieving snort. _So much like an angered lioness…_he thought, forcibly keeping his smirk in place lest a true smile at his thoughts shine through, "I am merely going by the Book of Villainy. You cannot join, or be a member in standing of The Guild of Calamity and Villainy, without following code. They have very strict guidelines, and have been known to offer assistance to the authorities when a member has gone rogue, or when a freelancer begins to make a bad name for the guild."

"Villainy implies malicious intent. You would think that those involved in the career of villainy would be incapable of even gathering with no bloodshed," she observed. "I certainly do not see you as a villain, no matter how well you look the part. It is not the costume that makes a person truly good or evil in character; it is the person themselves who determines what path they take."

"Perhaps…" Bart conceded with another of his brief grins, "And perhaps I should add that the guild is a group of reasonable, _gentleman_ villains? And any gentleman would try to avoid unnecessary troublemaking." He sobered slightly and speared Mim with an intense stare, "Now Miriam, you _were_ correct in saying I had an ulterior motive in this. My motive was to learn of you as a person. What makes you, _you_? I have found the version of yourself which, I admit startlingly, to be one of the most fascinating women I have ever encountered. I find myself wishing to know more…"

He let Mim digest that for a moment, drinking the last dregs of coffee in his cup, before signaling for another, "And that, my dear, is why I wished to talk with you today. No scheme. No plot. No thefts." Smirking, he added, "I am sure your friend, the clown, has gotten himself in trouble by now trying to preempt what you two thought would be my plan. You may wish to cut your teatime short to save him from his own foolishness."

"I'm sure he could handle anything you could send his way," Mim scoffed, her nose upturning slightly, "He is a gentleman himself, after all, and as you said yourself, a reasonable gentleman tries to avoid unnecessary troublemaking." She smirked slightly as Bart nodded, as if he'd walked into a trap, "Though with that established, I wonder why you find yourself in so much trouble… As such a reasonable gentleman, of course."

"Astute in reason and blessed with a rapier wit," Bart nodded at her, holding his hand before him as if holding a foil to acknowledge a point, "Touché, my dear. And to answer your question, I _am_ a reasonable gentleman, of both upbringing and of bearing. I am also, however, a man of science, and a man with _powerful_anti-imperialist beliefs!" Mim's eyes widened slightly at such a bold statement.

The red-head took a sip of her tea to keep herself from exclaiming in shock, and Bart continued into the growing silence, "As such, it is not only my duty, but my _honor_ to pursue any avenue I might to stop such actions. That is why I joined the Guild. I gain some minor protections from the law in many countries, so long as I keep my actions within certain, reasonable levels.

"As well," he continued in a manner that easily identified him as a scientist, "I, being a Guild member, am forced to keep in mind my own actions at all times; while I may commit some small violence in pursuit of my goals, it will always be lesser than the violence of those such as the son of Prince Dakkar. And even if I embraced that worthy gentleman's methods, they would be far, _far_short of the kinds of excesses that the imperialist autocrats of the world use now!"

"What do you mean?" Mim asked, shaken by the intensity of his gaze, as well as the implications of his words.

"I have seen what the imperialist autocracies have done in Africa, my dear Miriam." Bart's voice had an edge of heat to it as he continued, "I led men in German South-West Africa. I watched as men under my command were ordered to massacre men, women, and children! I saw some of those men break, mentally, and turned in my own commission in disgust!"

Mim was taken aback, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Bart plowed on, an ironic twist to his lips that resembled anything but a smile. "As an example closer to home for you," Bart's voice was now calm, and rather cold, "I suggest you look to your own American military's actions during the Philippine Insurrection, all on the orders of their government controllers… The atrocities, the hundreds and thousands of civilians killed each day because of some vague suspicion that they supported General Aguinaldo or tha-…"

"I see your point…" Mim groused in distaste, cutting the man off with a curt wave of her hand. She knew of the actions taken there all too well. She had been asked by the Middleton Daily, since she had been in the area of the world, to cover the situation for the paper. And, unfortunately for her, she had, and quite truthfully. Her editor had pulled her after the fifth report, and relegated her to reporting on happenings in and around Middleton, or on fashion.

The distasteful actions the military had taken in quelling the insurrection, actions she had sometimes witnessed, still made her stomach churn. Especially when she considered that her late husband may have been a part of the military actions had he not already been in China. "I was briefly stationed in Manila by the Middleton Daily in the middle phases of the war, right after I left China…"

"You were in China during the Boxer Rebellion?" Bart asked in a logical jump that startled Mim into a brief silence.

"Yes," she said simply, not wanting to reveal to her nemesis the pain she had suffered upon receiving word that her husband had been killed in action. Instead she shrugged, setting her tea down to partake of the cheese and bread that Bart was already eating from. She smeared a sharp smelling soft cheese shot through with various herbs on some hard bread and nibbled at it. After swallowing, she glanced away from her tablemate as she continued, "I see your point, Bartholomew… But surely it would be better to pursue more peaceful, political mean-…"

"My apologies for interrupting you," Bart said softly, but firmly. "I have already tried that. Both my position as a man among that aristocracy and my standing as a man of science should have given me headway, but alas, my pleas and declarations fell upon deaf ears in government, and all too open ears in academia. And as you can guess, the academics tend to be ignored until the problem has reared its head in a manner unavoidable to the governments of the world."

Mim felt slightly put out by his interruption, and was about to ask a further question when Bart held up his hand and favored her with an honestly apologetic glance, before looking towards the entrance of the café, "Good afternoon, Eduardo! You have a message for me, I presume?"

"Indeed, Mr. Lipsky!" the young man, perhaps seventeen years of age, said in English with a light, rather fetching Spanish accent, "From a Miss Go?"

"Thank you, and hold here for a moment, if you please?" Eduardo smiled gratefully and nodded, taking what was apparently a much needed breather. He unbuttoned his greatcoat in the heat of the café, revealing a well tailored tan and grey suit underneath.

Mim looked the young man over, wondering if he was somehow part of Lipsky's scheming. It was quite possible, considering the young man's age and his stylish fashion of dress, despite being what seemed to be a courier. He was a rather attractive young man, tall and lanky, with sharp, steel grey eyes, a hooked, but attractively proportioned nose and thin lips. His hair was short and of a no-nonsense cut, adding an air of sophistication to the young man's visage.

Eduardo seemed to have caught her sizing him up and gave a jaunty bow, holding his hand out, "My name, _mademoiselle_, is Eduardo Manuel Mauricio Senior, of Senior and Partners Courier Service."

"Miriam," Mim answered shortly, a mildly charmed smile taking any sting from her brevity as she held her hand out to shake his.

"A beautiful name for a beautiful woman, indeed," Eduardo murmured as he drew her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

"Thank you…" She paused a moment and cocked her head slightly, "Considering how much a mouthful your name is, I hope you don't mind me calling you Eduardo?"

"Not at all, _mademoiselle_!" Eduardo enthused, "As for my name, yes, it is a mouthful, but I'd have it no other way. My first name I share with my father, and my middle names are from my grandfathers!"

Mim smiled at the bright smile that was on the young man's face. She drew her hand back with a smile, grabbing up her cup of tea and managing a sip before her curiosity got the better of her, "If you don't mind me saying, you're quite fluent in English, Eduardo, though you seem Spanish? And being the apparent senior partner in a courier business in Paris at such a young age?"

"Ah, therein lies my secret!" he boasted grandiosely, "I may be young, but have traveled extensively, and picked up some small of fluency in several languages, as well as rather more fluency in English, Spanish – which is my home language, as you so noticed – as well as French, German and Russian. As for the business, my sisters, and two friends of mine are all equal partners in our enterprise, and all of them have similarly broad language skills to myself, with a variety of different languages, with French, English and Spanish as mutual languages…"

"Interesting…" Mim pondered for a moment, concluding that he seemed to be on the up and up. Considering his apparent language skills, if he and his partners were able to hold their tongues they would be useful for carrying diplomatic communiqués when discretion required someone not easily identified as connected to a given consulate. Not to mention international business transactions.

"Quite," Bart agreed as he finished scribbling a note, the paper folded such that Mim could not see what was being written, "And he's very efficient. Perhaps you would like to use Eduardo's services to send a message to your partner?"

"I might," Mim agreed with surprising ease, "Depending, of course, on the price?"

"It's based on distance, and we take the shortest route practical." Eduardo answered with a smile, "We also guarantee the privacy of anything sent via our service. As to price, it's four _centimes_ per mile for letters and small packages or packages under a pound. For packages from one to ten pounds, it's eight _centimes_ per mile, and for packages ten to twenty pounds, it's twelve _centimes_per mile. Larger packages are determined by a combination of size, weight and the form of transportation required… And we guarantee reception of the package."

"That…" Mim did a few figures in her head, blinking a few times, "Sounds very reasonable."

"Indeed!" Bart said with firm agreement, "And he has yet to fail any courier task I've given him."

"Then, yes, I do wish to make use of your service, Eduardo." She glanced at Bart, who was holding a pencil and a piece of paper out to her, "Thank you, Bartholomew." She quickly scribbled a note to Jon to meet her at the café, and handed the paper to Eduardo, "I may have to pay a little extra, but he was supposed to be at…" She reached into her coat's inner pocket and pulled out the paper with the address one of her contacts had given her, then grabbed a small pocket watch and opened it. She held the paper to the young man, and then held the open face of the pocket watch towards him, "My friend, Jon, should be at or in the area of that address."

"I shall make sure he gets your message." Eduardo handed the note with the address back to her and did some mental calculations, "That will be about fourteen _centimes_, plus an additional two if I have to search for him for a bit. I will return to you with your message and eighty percent of your costs if I am unable to find him, with the remaining twenty percent as payment for time used."

"That is reasonable." Mim murmured, and reached into her bodice to remove a coin purse, counting out the sixteen _centimes_and handing it to him. "Thank you very much." Mim was about to bid the young man goodbye, when a thought struck her, "What would be the best way to contact you if I have need of your services in the future?"

"I have cards made up for just such an occasion!" Eduardo said happily, reaching into his coat and pulling one out, "You may sometimes find me here, but will always find my youngest sister at our offices. I do hope to do business with you again, my lady!" He bowed at Mim, then turned and bowed at Bart, "_Adieu_, and thank you both for your business!"

"A surprisingly pleasant fellow," Mim murmured as she watched the man leave.

"Yes, and thank you for trusting him despite the fact that I use his services." Mim glanced at Bart, quirking an eyebrow at his considering gaze. Bart chuckled lightly, "My dear Miriam, it is reasonable to presume you were suspicious of him because I employ his services, even though he is a respectable entrepreneur. And I thank you for trusting him, as he is, as they say, above board."

"I trust my instincts," Mim said, ignoring a niggling in the back of her brain that said she sometimes ignored them, "And besides, I plan on staying here to finish my tea and meal…"

"And I must take my leave shortly," Bart mused, again smoothing his moustache, "I must thank you again, by the by…"

"For?" Mim asked casually, leaning back in her chair to nibble on another piece of bread and a slice of harder cheese.

"I am thanking you for trusting my honor as a gentleman not to act in an untoward manner. Especially considering the day it is?" Bart declared, then started as if just remembering something, "Also, I know it is only Christmas Eve, but I felt that my favorite foe deserves a present equal to the esteem in which I hold her."

"I keep forgetting we are ahead of the Americas, timewise," Mim sighed, before quirking an eyebrow when the rest of his statement struck her, "And what present could you possibly offer that I could accept, Bartholomew?"

"Why, only this…" Bart allowed an honest smile to grace his features, and reached down underneath the table, grabbing a familiar satchel from the floor and setting it in the chair to his left. "As well as my promise that I did nothing to the originals that were in Britain. That would be Mr. Giordano's doing."

"I see…" Mim barely contained herself from laughing. _So you never realized that 'Mr. Giuseppe Giordano' was actually a Frenchman named Jean-Paul Sauvage?_Instead of laughing, she reached over to carefully grab the satchel and look inside. Her mouth dropped open slightly as she realized that all of the plans seemed to be within the satchel, and she glanced sharply across the table at him. "Why would you give me this?" she asked suspiciously, then narrowed her eyes, "Unless you've already gotten your use of it?"

"Guilty, as charged…" Bart admitted with seemingly honest contrition, "And as you'll note, I've put a few additional papers in there that I'm sure the inventor of such a brilliant form of steel might find useful."

"Why?" Mim boggled at him, and was surprised as he leaned back and spoke contemplatively.

"Because, Miriam…" he didn't realize he'd dropped the 'my dear' he normally used, "I am a man of science. If I can help a fellow scientist in any way, I'll do so… Even at the risk of improving the weaponry of war, as this material has so many practical uses." He shook himself, then glanced back at her, "And… Considering your dogged pursuit, I felt it only honorable to assist you in recovering something of such importance."

"You are a strange man, Mr. Lipsky," Mim intoned, but silently admitted that, if her close friendship with Jonathon was any yardstick, she liked weird. If he wasn't on the wrong side of things, she could easily see him being a good friend, but alas… She shook herself and smiled, the first truly honest expression of such she had graced him with, and held out her hand, "Thank you, then, Bartholomew. And I think a Christmas truce between you and Miss Go in respect to myself and Jon is… A very agreeable situation?"

"Yes, and…" Bart took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something, "Upon my honor, I shall do no villainy between now and the second day of the new year, from this year and into perpetuity."

Mim's eyes widened, and she found herself smiling in agreement, "Very well! Perhaps…" She paused, realizing what she was about to say, and felt a tremor of shock run through her system.

"Perhaps?" Bart asked leadingly, and Mim shook herself, taking a long sip of her tea before answering.

"Perhaps, if our seconds are busy with other duties, and we're in Paris together, we should share tea again." Mim felt her cheeks color slightly, but forced it aside and pushed on stubbornly, "You are a fascinating man, and I'd like to know more of you. And, as a gentleman, if you agree to this, we shall not bear ill will between us during the entirety of such… Meetings. Agreeable?"

Bart considered this. He had hoped to learn something of Mim, and had, instead, told her more of himself than he'd gleaned of her. However, he'd also enjoyed the back and forth, and the less hostile exposure to her sharp wit and tongue. He could find himself enjoying such meetings, and, perhaps over time, he could bring her around to his point of view. A very enticing proposition indeed, but it would be untoward to be blatant about it. "My dear Miriam, I find this agreeable to the utmost degree. To sit across the table from a witty and intelligent wo-… Rather, _gentlewoman_, and share philosophy and general discussion over tea and breakfast? I would be a fool to do otherwise!"

"Charming," Mim declared in a droll tone at his somewhat grandiose declaration. But, she admitted, he seemed sincere at least. "When are you expecting to leave to meet up with Miss Go?"

He took his pocket watch out and glanced at it. "In about fifteen minutes I must take my leave. I had allowed time for any possible escape as I was unsure of how you would react to my proposition."

"Very well," Mim nodded, smirking at his odd preparations. _He is _such_ an odd fellow!_she thought, then smiled at him and held up her tea in salute, "I think, then, that I shall enjoy the time before we go our separate ways…"

"As shall I," Bart agreed, holding his coffee cup up to gently clink it with her teacup, "As shall I…"

**Authors' Notes**

Well, there's the first chapter! Miriam and Jon are fighting the good fight, and poor Bartholomew was taken completely off guard... Yet, as luck would have it, Karma smiled upon him.

As for Mim and Jon, well... Quite the interesting little development, non? Mim is shown to be a very progressive woman, and Jon seems to support this attitude quite handily... Well, for obvious reasons, but nonetheless...

And then there's that intriguing meeting for breakfast... Why would Mim think she could get information out of a crafty villain like Bart Lipsky so easily? Only time will tell...

A very special thanks for SirSebastian, Pharaoh Rutin' Tootin', and Sven Endori for looking this over for glaringly obvious mistakes and flow. :3

Remember, readers: stay happy, stay safe, review and don't support generation Xerox! As always, remember, there are a lot of fics out there, and a lot that deserve your attention, so keep on reading!

Neo's tiny side note: Writing in Victorian era speech is fun! \o/

**EDIT:** Fixing/editing some small things on 4/15/12.

**Disclaimer:**This is a work of fiction based on the "Kim Possible" universe. It is written for entertainment purposes only and is a strictly not for profit endeavor. "Kim Possible" and all characters thereof are owned by "The Walt Disney Company and Affiliated Companies"; any other name, individual, product or etc. are registered, trademarked, and/or copyrighted by their respective owners. Should any of the aforementioned or their affiliates request it, we shall change the name of any product, individual or etc. and/or remove this work of fan fiction from the Web.

Individuals, corporations and/or entities without registered, trademarked, and/or copyrighted names, but with a well known and/or public presence that may or may not appear within this work of fiction are considered fair use.

Any original characters, devices, products or etc. that are created by us may be used in "Kim Possible" or other fandom works of fanfiction, fanart or etc. so long as either a) permission sought from and given by us, or b) full disclosure of the source is given in said work. Any original characters not created by us (either by another fanfiction author, artist or etc., or characters not created exclusively by us) are used with permission.

Any use of characters that are considered "fanon" characters is considered fair use.

Thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors' Forward**

Last chapter, Bartholomew Lipsky, the villain whom Miriam Possible has been chasing down in hopes of gaining the key to restoring her good name, had the gall to invite her to tea. Stuck waiting on his move, she said yes, in the as yet vain hope he would reveal a path to proof of his misdeeds. Unfortunately for her, she got a bit more than she'd bargained for.

This time around, it seems our antagonists are a bit busier than they were the last time. What could it be? Only they and their compatriots know... And in the aftermath of those events, more tea time!

A quick a shoutout to the reviewers... :3

Slipgate: thank you for the kind - not to mention constructive - words! You pointed out something we weren't quite able to put our finger on. Thankfully, your words helped us rectify this...

melissa Ivory: glad you liked the shoutout to a certain Belgium detective; Neo loves the stories involving him, seemingly as much as Dame Agatha Christie loathed him. We're also quite pleased you like the story in and of itself, and hope you continue to enjoy it through to its conclusion!

Pharaoh Rutin Tutin: very astute observations about Bartholomew in relation to Dr. Drakken. That was something we discussed in a general sense, though not quite as succinctly as you did.

As we mentioned, we hope you, and all of our readers, continue to enjoy the fic. We had planned on the Authors' Notes being a bit of fun, but, due to the size of this chapter, we've chosen to be a bit brief. Hope you don't mind, and on with the fic!

**MP MP MP MP**

_December 22, 1906_

It was a warm night in Britain. Considering the time of year, that still meant bone-numbing temperatures, even for those who could afford thicker clothing. Then again, the cold was unnoticed by the woman who had running through the streets of London for the last fifteen minutes. Not only was her clothing of a more high class style, and thus warm in and of itself, but also held in the heat of her exertions.

Unfortunately, the combination of rushing to escape the police, and the cumbersome bulk of her dress, she was unable to catch herself when she missed sighting a homeless man huddling in a dark corner to get out of the wind. With an undignified squawk Miss Go found herself tumbling along the slick streets. It took her a few seconds to recover and get back on her footing, a few seconds which she didn't have to spare. In almost no time the policeman giving chase was standing at the ready a few feet away, revolver drawn.

"Don' move, Miss, o'else I'll have ta shoot ya in th' back," the Bobby shouted at the recovering Miss Go. That plus the suddenness of Miss Go's tripping served to scare off the few street urchins and scavengers that could possibly bear witness to whatever was about to happen. The pounding of their feet on the ground were a fitting accompaniment to the bodyguard's heart. "An' y'best no' think I won' do it!"

Miss Go snorted in anger at the threat to ignore her own instinctual reactions, but decided not to protest for the moment. Since the middle of the prior century, although allowed to carry them, it was the rare Bobby indeed that carried a firearm of any kind. Especially in this neighborhood, where an armed policeman would likely earn a swift, brutal beating from local toughs. Or even regular citizens who feared the British government's old tendency to use the military for policing actions.

All of which was proof positive that, despite having one of the classiest police forces in the world, there were always some bad apples. Granted, it was quite possible this particular Bobby was a regular, upstanding member of the police... But Miss Go really didn't feel like testing to find out if this was one of the good apples or bad. If she could get to one of the hypodermic needles hidden on her person, if she could inject him and further if she could keep him busy long enough when he came to collect her, she might get away. _Too much 'if' in that for my liking!_

As she was settling her hands in seemingly unusable positions behind her, Miss Go heard a sudden scuffle, the sound of a hammer nestling gently into its frame, and the sound of the Bobby choking. The sound of cloth rustling was quickly drowned out by the man's wheezing and the scraping of his boots on the cobblestone streets, and she smiled evilly, waiting for the telltale sounds to stop. She was rewarded for her patience barely a quarter of a minute later as the noise of struggle died down.

"I'm surprised you managed to dodge your pursuers, Lipsky, what with you being so over the hill!" she mocked as she turned around. As she had thought, the man she was stuck guarding had the police officer in what she thought was an overly complicated, if competently applied, choke hold. _Damnable Greco-Roman teachings!_

"This is no time for your barbed tongue," Bartholomew said sternly. He released the tight grip on the officer's neck and set him down gently against the wall. "They will be here soon. I was able to lose the police officer pursuing me, but only barely."

"Uh-huh. Right. Because you are most certainly capable of that!" Miss Go snarked again.

"What had I said of that wicked tongue?" Bart growled with pursed lips, "I distinctly remember you having trouble keeping up with me in Morocco last month!"

"And I remember always having trouble moving in Africa's heat!" Miss Go snapped back at him, earning a wry smirk from Bart.

"Be that as it may, we must move quickly, Miss Go," Bart hovered over the unconscious patrolman as he draped a tattered blanked one of the urchins had abandoned over his unconscious form, "That is the best way to ensure we are not spotted and recognized by the police." The villain then stood fully and gestured toward a door she hadn't noticed as it was well-hidden in the shadows of the night. Shady-looking, but of the right type to serve their needs. He eyed her critically as he added, "You were simply lucky he decided follow the police code. If he had not, your decency would have been quite compromised."

"Compromised," she grumbled as he opened the nearly hidden door she'd been heading towards and went in. "I'll show _you_ compromised..." To her minor relief, he didn't do the ridiculous gentleman crap and hold the door, instead simply walking inside ahead of her. She followed, failing to notice a familiar figure with luxurious red hair spying their movements but a street away.

**MP MP MP MP**

"What in the devil are they doing in there?" The young blond man tapped his foot a few times before turning to his friend with added benefits. "We've been standing here in the cold for nearly twenty minutes, by my count. Why would they spend so much time in one spot when all of the British police are looking for them?"

"They seem to be waiting for someone," the redhead answered with narrowed eyes. _I know they're waiting for something, at any rate..._ she thought, pursing her lips. _As much as I do enjoy the warmth of our teatime meetings, and as much a gentleman as Bartholomew has been during them, I had _hoped_ the meetings with him had finally borne fruit! But it seems the hints I picked up on were not enough to gain the whole picture..._

"Are you certain they're waiting for someone?" Jon asked, rubbing his chin in thought, "Or could they be waiting for something? A delivery, some such?"

"I do not know, Jon..." Sighing in frustration, she began to speak her thoughts aloud, her speech much more agitated than it had been, "But that makes sense. They just obtained the messages from the French ambassador's office pertaining to their agreements with Britain, both public and very secret. There is nowhere in Britain they could safely divest themselves of those documents no matter how well ensconced in their role. They would need to get to whoever they are obtaining this information for soon, lest the information be outdated..." She sighed and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "What do you think, Jon?"

"Well, mayhaps they're just stopping for a light drink," Jon suggested with a shrug. "I know that I'd certainly like a taste right now. The cold's nipping right through my trousers!"

Mim couldn't help but to slip him a tantalizing look, the comment having reminded her of an itch which would need scratched soon. "Do not worry of your trousers for now. They will be more a worry later tonight when they are in the way."

His look of mild surprise was swiftly replaced by one of knowing. "Ah, got ya. Still, I don't think it'd be a bad idea to go in and get a small drink. Maybe we could even ask the locals if they know anything."

"Jonathon, this is not a bar where one obtains alcohol and talks with friends," Mim stated with a bit of frustration. "Or, rather, it is not _just_ a bar. You see that entrance, about twelve feet to the left? There's likely an easier to use one inside as well."

"I only see a poorly patched section of wal-…" The sounds of several loud bangs, sounding as a cannon would at a good distance, gave him pause. "That sounded like a boiler explosion!" he concluded after the briefest of pauses, before glancing over at Mim, who had dropped into a crouch as if preparing to dive for cover. She quickly shook her head and turned towards the southeast, and Jon's gaze followed hers. Both scanned the skyline, but saw no telltale red glow or fire, and he reached up to scratch his head in consternation, "I hope no one was hurt…"

"This is the industrial area, and the fact that the locals do not seem to be bothered makes me think it is a regular occurrence," Mim harrumphed in distaste, "That is one of the things I miss about America! The safety of our factories seems so far ahead of Britain's or those in France."

"Yes," Jon agreed, looking back towards the front of the building they were watching, "But I still don't see this doo-…" He stopped and squinted, then shook his head in wonder, "I see it now… I'd have missed it had you not mentioned it, Mim!"

"As is the design," Mim nodded firmly. "By the looks of it, it is like some of the one of the many opium dens which I encountered in my time in China, the ones set up in higher class neighborhoods designed to be hidden in plain sight. The same kind that are still in Europe and even our own country! The addition of a bar is likely to allay suspicion of authorities or busybodies."

"Huh. What would those two want with opium?" her blond friend asked.

"I do not think they are there for opium. That only leads us back to waiting, which still has no sense. What could they be waiting for?" She grunted and began to pace back and forth, oblivious to everything but her own thoughts. Even the sound of alarm bells and police whistles in the distance did not rouse her from her musings. "Is it a person? A signal? How do they expect to get out of here with their information?"

"Maybe they're waiting for the fire from the boiler explosions to be taken care of?" the detective hazarded.

"Fire?" Mim's head shot up as she listened for the telltale sounds. Sure enough, fire bells from various firefighting wagons and the emergency whistles the police used were sounding in the distance. _And all going in the direction of that explosion!_"A signal!" her eyes widened in realization, "Jon, you're a genius!" Mim grabbed Jon's collar and began dragging him toward the den. "We must hurry!"

"Whoa!" Jon struggled to regain his balance as he rushed toward the nearly hidden entrance of the opium den. "I don't get it, Mim. What's going on?"

"A distraction is what is going on," she said with certainty. "I do not know how -compatriots, perhaps - but they are behind that fire, and likely the explosions we heard a moment ago! The explosions and fire shall distract the policemen and capture the attention they are desperate to avoid. It may even be too late as it is." She mentally prepared herself for what could very well be a nasty flashback as the door came in to clear view. "I would wager my freedom that there is a secret exit in this hole."

"Technically you're already wagering that with chasing Mr. L.!" Jon commented.

Mim somehow managed to both sigh and chuckle at the same time, breaking her melancholy mood a bit. "Somehow, you always know what to say..." she smiled as she opened the door and went in.

"...I still don't get it."

**MP MP MP MP**

"Ugh!" Miss Go's pacing to and fro had not stopped for even a moment since they had hidden themselves in the dingy hole-in-the-wall masquerading as a legitimate establishment. Why Bartholomew had picked this particular place to wait was beyond her. All she knew was that the lighting was dim, the few men that were conscious enough to see their surroundings were too touchy for comfort, and there was a distracting sense of exaltation flowing through her body.

That very exultation was diminishing her normally iron will, and her blood was boiling hotter with every moment she was pressed into the dark corner her employer had forced them into. _It was that damnable tea!_ she griped to herself, favoring her employer with a dire glare, _He should have told me what it was before I drank it!_

She felt herself relaxing her gaze, indeed, her whole body as she continued starting at him. _Of course, he could not have known I was going to drink the tea left out by the proprietor..._She sighed in what she hoped was an unobtrusive fashion, a small part of her protesting how easily she forgave the man, but the majority cheering the response. Then she cursed herself as her employer looked back at her. Thinking as fast as her somewhat numbed mind would allow, she screwed her face up in as nasty a grimace as she could and asked, "Can we leave yet, Lipsky? I can't stand the smell in here."

"Patience, Miss Go," he urged quietly, the hand he placed on her shoulder - much in the manner of a commander comforting a fidgety soldier - adding to Miss Go's distraction. She grunted in a deeper sense of frustrated elation, and craned her neck in an attempt to see more of the hidden cranny they were in, out of sight from casual observers. He removed the hand from her shoulder when she stilled, giving her a vicious smile as he nodded towards the door, "We are biding our time. You will know the signal when it is given."

She grunted again, but settled back completely and tried to ignore the comforting warmth still spreading from where his hand had been. She shook her head and concentrated on the facts of the situation, hoping it would distract her. She knew that the proprietor of the establishment was a Chinaman of an oddly regal bearing, but that German nationalist owned it.

Strangely, the nationalist was as strong an anti-imperialist as her employer, if not more so. He was serving to protect them from detection long enough for a fellow ally, a former Prussian agent who spoke with a perfect French accent and was also loyal to the German Kaiser. Though the Prussian had feigned hatred at the unification of the Germanic states, he had nonetheless helped to set up the next stage of the plan.

The Prussian had perhaps four dozen local toughs ready to take action against the factories with bricks, clubs and small explosives designed to wreck the newfangled machines and possibly start small fires, but damage little else. The men were all former employees of those same factories, all of whom had been unable to change with the new manufacturing techniques the factories had begun using. They were to storm the factories and attack the workers still there, as well as the firefighters that would inevitably come to douse any flames.

Of course, once the police arrived to quell the seeming riot, in turn trying to save not just the precious factories which powered the empire, but the still employed factory workers and the firemen as well, the two villains would slip out of the opium den and into a back alley. From there, they'd make their way to an awaiting carriage which was under the protection of Austria-Hungary and free of suspicion all the way to the harbor. And it would all point to the French, or at least a faction within the French government, as the overall instigators. A fitting combination of resources, as Bart had said when he'd modified the original plan, a point to which Miss Go had grudgingly agreed.

Now, as she watched her employer sitting there as if the stifling, smoke filled air gave him no pause, she wanted to shout at him. But she couldn't; she knew, and had agreed, that this it was the only place available which the police would not suspect enough to send officers just after the theft. And, despite her earlier bravado, she was not taking the atmosphere nearly as well as she had hoped she would.

"This air is _stifling_! How did London in winter get so warm?" Miss Go huffed, pulling at the top of her dress. "I can barely breathe..."

"I suggest you not begin to loosen your clothing," Bart said, motioning toward her hands which were now clumsily working at her top button. "It will be hard to resist the urge to continue removing everything later."

"And you'd know this why?" Miss Go half-heartedly snapped, before smiling as the man turned and grabbed her fumbling hands.

"That is unimportant. I hear the first signals; it is only a matter of time before we must move alo-..." he muttered, his face slackening slightly in surprise as her hands grasped his. She stared up at him, and wondered why she was so frustrated. It was, after all, a warm night, even for a London winter, and... She had never realized how Bartholomew's hands could be so gentle...

She was about to lean in towards her suddenly handsome employer when the sound of the front door bursting open assailed their ears, followed immediately by the sound of the proprietor screaming in rapid fire Chinese. "What th-..." Bart began, but the frustratingly familiar voice hollering back at the proprietor in his native tongue startled the villain into action. "Quickly, Miss Go, to the rear exit!"

"Wha-..." Miss Go's jaw was slack with a mixture of happiness and confusion as he stared down at her. She didn't understand her employer's sudden urge to leave the wonderfully dark room, but she didn't argue, and began attempting to stand, grabbing onto his coat to pull herself up. "Oohhh..." she moaned when he suddenly helped her the rest of the way to her feet. A hot flush spread rapidly across her skin at his touch, and she felt especially warm when he shook his head and grabbed her, bundling her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Come on, Miss Go!" he hissed as he barged through the rear door, "The Chinaman said the tea was weak, so please snap out of this stupor!"

"I'm _fine_!" she called out in a vague chuckle, reaching around his torso and pressing the side of her face close to his back to keep the bouncing of her view to a minimum. This also gave her an upside down view of Mim coming into the opium den's back room just as they were leaving. A huge smile crossed Miss Go's face as she waved at the red-head, "Bye, Mimmy!"

Her world spun drunkenly as Bart twisted to close the back door and bar it shut with the heavy timber and iron door bar he had suggested the owner install before the mission. "This was a good idea, Barty..."

Miss Go's cooing voice was almost drowned out by Mim, whose voice was still clearly audible despite the thick, heavy wooden door, "You won't get away, Lipsky!"

"I already have, my dear Miriam!" Bart answered, and Miss Go giggled, closing her eyes to avoid watching the dizzying spin as Bart turned and dashed down the back alley towards the waiting coach. "Now a quick trip up the coast to my airship, and we'll be on our way to Paris!"

"I _love_ flying..." Miss Go sighed, adding in her head, _With you..._She immediately held tighter to Bart. She knew she hadn't said what she wanted to, but was glad she hadn't. If she kept her thoughts confined, trapped within a small box in her mind, perhaps she could act upon them before the fear that those feelings brought out within could stop her.

**MP MP MP MP**

"Damn you, Lipsky!" Mim growled as she stormed into what would be their private room, at least until the ship made landfall on the Normandy coast in the late afternoon of the following day. They had booked passage on a passenger ship earlier in the day which was heading for Paris that night, a move which Mim was now grateful for.

She was still feeling the effects of the opium den, but not as badly as Jon. She glanced back at her friend and frowned guiltily as she thought about what had happened.

_"Mim, try and go 'round back, I'll try and get through the door here!" Mim hadn't argued, as there was a good chance he would be able to break the door down. He was, despite his short stature, quite powerful._

_She'd ran back into the bar, only to be assailed by the proprietor screaming at her in Mandarin Chinese. She had only enough time to yell back in Mandarin that they were chasing thieving fiends before three tall, burly men had stood from the bar. Their bearing and quick move towards Mim made it obvious as to their jobs: bouncers._

_Jon, perhaps inspired by the leading edge of an opium induced haze, shoved her towards the still open front door and had charged the group of three. They had swiftly set into shoving and pushing at each other, somehow managing to fall through the door into the smoking room. Mim had tried to jump in to help, but was quickly set upon by the proprietor._

_The man, she learned quickly, was very skilled in his home country's martial arts; far better, it was apparent to her, than she herself. He'd easily corralled her into a corner with kicks, feints and grand, sweeping blocks that nearly turned her own attacks upon herself. She had managed to land a few blows due to her still superior speed, but was honestly no match for his skill._

_She was still embarrassed as to how she'd defeated him and how quickly it had happened. She had struck out at him, and he had dodged before sending a long, claw-like strike to her midsection. She had pulled back enough that the blow was glancing, but his fingers had caught underneath the snap buttons of her waistcoat. The blow had driven up and popped the buttons, and a finger had slipped under her bodice, ripping it open and revealing the flesh underneath. The man's eyes had boggled for barely an instant, but it had been enough so she could manage a strike firm enough behind his ear to knock him out._

_She had immediately grabbed a discarded umbrella to use as a club and rushed into the smoke-filled back room. She had found Jon in the middle of fighting off the last of the men, the other two lying quite unconscious on the floor. If the men of the smoking den - and their strange positions as compared to mere moments earlier - were been any indication, he had won by being the least tripped up by the opium smokers on the floor. And while he was bruised and scraped, it seemed he had managed to avoid most of the toughs' blows while rendering them unconscious in turn._

_She was quickly given an example of just how strong he was. When the tough saw Mim, he had turned and pulled a knife, obviously intent on holding her prisoner. While she would never have allowed the man to achieve a superior position, Jon had beaten her to the punch. He had grabbed the man from behind, reaching his arms around the man's elbows and rendering his knife useless. The bear hug had been powerful enough to make the man groan in pain, and then he'd lifted the man bodily and thrown him head first into a thick wooden support beam._

_"Thank God you're alright!" Mim had sighed. Unfortunately, he hadn't been as hale as she'd thought. His hand had been severely lacerated by a broken ceramic bowl, and the thick, viscous brown of opium tar still clung to his hands, having been worked deep into the cuts. To make matters worse, in his stupor he had bent over the still smoking bowl of a water pipe, breathing heavily of the pungent, sickly-sweet smoke from burning opium cones. "Let's get you out of here, Jon!"_

_She had hurriedly taken him out, and somehow managed to find a cab working late in the area. She had tended to him as best she could, but decided it best to let Lipsky and Miss Go get away, must to Jon's chagrin._

Looking the blond over as he stood leaning against the doorframe, she shook her head and made her way over to him. "I'm so sorry for leaving you in that room alone, Jon," Mim said as she led him from the door to the bed, gently urging him to sit down.

"It's alright, Mim..." he answered in a distracted tone, unbuttoning his suit jacket and attempting to shrug it off, "I thought merely to keep you from their hands, figuring you could take them all with the proper distraction..."

"Well, had the proprietor not been so skilled, it would have worked!" she assured him as she helped him with his suit jacket. It was obvious the new bruises and scrapes were causing him problems despite the drug still coursing through his veins.

"Yeah, I hadn't figured the Chinaman to be a good fighter…" he looked away from her, shame on his face as he whispered, "I'm sorry that Mr. L. and Ms. G. got away, Mim…"

"Do _not_worry about that, Jon!" Mim admonished, barely resisting the urge to slap his shoulder, "Worry about yourself." She sighed unobtrusively, realizing part of his problem was the drug still in his system. The opium was obviously not settling well with him at all…

**MP MP MP MP**

Jon was unsure how he'd gotten to the bed, but he couldn't complain since sitting was helping the pounding in his head. He had tried to remove his shirt jacket, managing to unbutton it, but the vague feeling of pain lancing through his body halted him.

Not that it was objectionable; in point of fact, he'd felt more intense burning in his muscles when he was a young teen working in his father's warehouse moving large shipping crates around. And even later when he'd worked under Barkin, having to pull the stubborn man around in a rickshaw since he kept working despite the nearly crippling back injury he'd received fighting against the plains Indians not long before General Custer's catastrophic defeat.

Yet, despite being what many considered somewhat of a dunderhead, he knew the effects of some drugs. He knew the opium was related to morphine, so he felt it quite possible that, had he been sober, he would be in a great deal of pain.

As it stood, he was feeling... Good, if a bit muzzy headed. He shook his head, trying to focus on something, and found Mim's hands now working on his undershirt. He wanted to comment on the missing suit jacket, but instead he spoke on his strange state of mind. "I feel so _odd_..." he whispered as his shirt left his torso, "I have this... This _feeling_, like something creeping in uninvited... Yet... Yet I feel capable of doing _so much_, of _saying_so much..."

Mim's nimble fingers worked on loosening the buttons of his pants, and he found himself staring down at the crown of her head. A sudden thought struck him, inspired by his earlier efforts in fighting off the aftereffects of the fight in the opium den. He knew that part of his confusion was concern over his own problems with anxiety and the preventative his childhood doctor had prescribed him and which he still used.

Unfortunately, he would be unable to let his thoughts rest until he received a suitable answer. Looking at Mim, he gently clasped her hands in his to stop the distracting motion and asked, "Mim... Do I... Do I get like this when I imbibe hash oil in food or drink, or when I smoke cannabis for my anxiety?"

"Sometimes, Jon," Mim acknowledged guardedly, "But never this... Strangely subdued? Truthfully, you're usually more easily amused than normal - a hard task, I will admit!" He had enough presence of mind to groan at the poor joke as she continued, "And while sometimes scatter-brained, you are never this… This weepy, or so worryingly vague of thought."

Jon smiled at her answer, strangely relieved to hear it. "Thank God..." he murmured as a strangely faraway memory struck him. Her steady work at his pants fly reminded him of their plans for the night. A sense of joy, more intense and of a different type to the one he normally felt when preparing for the deed, flushed through him as he thought of being close to her once more.

Jon knew he didn't like having this feeling during their sexual couplings, and tried to remember just why he didn't like to let himself dwell on the possibilities. The buzz in his head, however, seemed to brush the attempts away. A deep part of him agreed with it and helped to put his qualms to rest.

"Those men were quite brutish, were they not?" Mim commented in dismay as she looked over his now trouserless body, examining his wounds. "Do not worry; I shall treat these abrasions and cuts before they become too bothersome. _Especially_ the cuts on your hand!"

"We washed the opium out, Mim!" he protested weakly, "I..-"

"There is no arguing on this, Jonathon," she cut him off, giving an evil eye as he attempted to protest again, "I will tend to you as you would if I were the injured party. Remember last month in Madrid?"

Jon leaned in and leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes, "Of course. I'm sorry, Mim, I jus-..." A sudden knock at the door interrupted him, startling them both enough to bump their heads together firmly.

"J-just a minute!" Mim cried in a shaky voice, rubbing her forehead. She climbed from the bed and swiftly made her way to the door. Jon was shaken from his hot-blooded stupor while she dressed herself enough to answer the door, wondering if the shakiness in her voice was because of his comments and actions, or the bump they'd shared

His last thought shook him slightly from his stupor. Coming somewhat to his senses, he realized just how close he came to accidentally pressuring his best friend. As he berated himself, said friend came walking back from the door holding a note.

"Strange that someone came to a boat to deliver a message," he noted, clumping the sheets close to his body in slight embarrassment.

"It was not a messenger, though a messenger most likely dropped it off with the crewman that delivered it." Mim shrugged to him before opening the letter she'd received. She seemed unperturbed by it, but he noticed her eyes widen a fraction. "What is it?"

Looking up in surprise, she shook her head and chuckled. "I was simply taken aback by the date. Is it truly the twenty-second already?"

"Yes..." Jon wasn't sure where the sudden change in demeanor came from, but he was certain that there was to be no more physical interaction that night. Mim looked to be quite pleased, though Jon was sure it was more from the letter than him. Whatever was in that note must have been good news. Her sudden shift of topic attitude told him that she didn't wish to discuss it, which was curious in itself. _Why am I so... Worried about this? I never have before now, an-..._

"I am afraid that I must admit forgetting the date," she said sheepishly, cutting off his thoughts, "I will have to find a present for you when we reach Paris. Speaking of which... We cannot arrive too late lest we lose the trail."

"A point, Mim..." Jon agreed with a strangely happy smile as he watched her readjust her garments and don her usual dress.

"I am going to check on the time of our arrival, Jon. I shall be back directly," Mim informed him. When she caught his smile, she walked over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "And I will get the needed supplies to make a sugar and oil compress for those cuts and scrapes."

"I am not a horse!" Jon laughed brightly, remembering the many times when they were younger helping the red-head with injured horses.

"Perhaps not," Mim winked salaciously at him after placing a gentle hand just below the junction of his leg and hip, "But you're as strong and stubborn as one, my dear friend..." Jon felt himself responding to her comment and the implications of it, and Mim's smile became just a bit saucy as she kissed his cheek again, this time just at the edge of his mouth. She stood and made her way quickly to the door, calling back over her shoulder, "You try and get some rest while I am out."

"I shall endeavor to, Mim!" Jon called back to her, admittedly very tired despite his desires.

"I mean it, Jon!" Mim called again, sticking her head back into the cabin.

"I..." Jon began, only to pause for a brief moment when the door closed firmly, "Will... You must always get the last word in, eh, Mim?" he concluded with a fond smile. Then he lay back with a sigh, pondering the latest development. He didn't know what had been in that letter, but he couldn't help but feel like it was something he would not be happy to know of.

Less than a half hour later, Jon was hard pressed to remember the letter... Or why he had been so worried. It was plainly obvious that Mim still held a strong interest in the physical side of their friendship...

**MP MP MP MP**

_December 24, 1906_

Mim had just walked up to the café's front door when sounds reminiscent to a Maxim gun split the chill morning air. She had barely kept herself from diving for cover, having had the experience of hearing the Gatling guns the American military had used in the Philippines, or the Maxim guns she'd heard in both the Philippines and China. She turned a sharp glare out the front door of the café, and was relieved to see that it had merely been an auto's backfiring.

She felt a touch of concern for the poor driver, whose face was cut open when the crank had swung around to strike him. His nose was also disturbingly out of place but he seemed otherwise fine and was standing, if a bit shaky legged. She shrugged minutely and set about calming herself a bit before entering.

After settling her racing heart, she walked deeper into the café and saw her semi-regular teatime companion sitting in the usual spot. She couldn't help but let a smile that matched his grace her features, a smile which she wanted to berate herself for. _I am _just_ trying to get information from him!_ she griped mentally, _Just because we're being pleasant does not mean I should consider this anything other than work!_

As if to spite her own admonishments, she found herself fighting down a strong bout of curiosity when she saw his neck. There were marks and scratches that looked, in turn, like he had fought off someone trying to choke him... Or a woman holding him in the throes of passion.

"Good evening, my dear Miriam," Bart's nodded greeting drew the red-head from her consideration as she walked up to the table, "It is good to see you are in good health after the incident in London."

"No thanks to you," Mim groused good-naturedly, scratching at the collar of her dress. Bart couldn't help but notice that it was rather severely higher than normal, going almost to the angle of her jaw, but held off asking about it as she sat. "I am assuming the papers you were attempting to abscond with did not make it?"

"No thanks to you," he parroted with an admirable smirk. "I was quite impressed that you figured out where the information was heading."

"It was not a big thing," Mim said, waving her hand. "Your plots are much too complex; it made sense to me that you would have placed the documents with an intermediary while you went a different path. The police, myself, and Jonathon were already on your path, so placing the documents elsewhere and leading us on a wild goose chase was perfect. Draw attention from the _real_ carrier and spark a possible international incident with Germany, tarnishing Britain's reputation. And," she smiled devilishly, "You would never have thought to simply keep the documents on your person. Much too ordinary and simple."

"Whoever said the intermediary was _my _idea, my dear Miriam?" Bart's smirk, surprisingly, morphed into a boyish, charming grin, not at all ruined by the shrug that followed, "Had I had my way, the papers would have gone straight to a third party within London, to leave via a completely different route. Much as you suggested, actually... Though they likely would have stayed on Miss Go's person until then! She has much better places to hide such than I!"

Mim pursed her lips, but could not find fault with his claim. She shrugged herself, then fixed him with a considering gaze, "Speaking of papers, you realize I would be out of your hair if you could merely supply... Documentation that I was not at fault for the theft of the Electrostatic Illuminator, yes?"

"No matter how much you point out the easing of both our pains if I were to, my honor demands I not. It would be unsportsmanlike and cruel to give you a false hope of clearing your name," Bart murmured in a regretful tone, all joking replaced with an air of seriousness. "In all honesty, as I may have mentioned, the political consequences bear far more on others than on myself, and it is for them that I am afraid we must continue our continual tête-à-tête."

"As I thought you would say," Miriam sighed. Shrugging to herself so she could let go of the issue for the day - she couldn't _force _him to give her the proof, after all - and loosen her shoulders, she leaned forward to show that regularly raised topic was at rest, "Now that we have the traditional attempts to convince you freeing yourself of me as a burden have failed, where is the tea so I may drown my woes in lovely chamomile?"

"I must express my apologies," Bart gestured to the red-head's side of the table and the glass of wine resting there, "But the cafe informed me that they were out of chamomile tea. I hope a nice red wine will suffice?"

"It will, Bartholomew," Miriam nodded at him with a slightly disappointed, but grateful smile. She sampled the wine and nodded satisfaction before following what had become a tradition during their regular afternoon teatime meetings: taking her cigarette case out and setting it on the table between her plate and the serving platter. She grabbed a hunk of bread and a small wedge of an herb-filled hard cheese and alternated dainty bites of each. "Is this a Riesling? It tastes much like one of my mother's favored vintages..."

"It is indeed," Bart nodded, mildly surprised, "I presume your mother is somewhat of a wine aficionado?"

"She fancies herself such," Mim admitted after a long sip at her wine, "But I must admit that, a few wines aside, her tastes are rather..." Mim paused for a moment, taking another sip of her wine while she sought the proper word, "Trite. She tends to favor sweet wines with little to no other redeeming qualities."

Bart allowed a chuckle that he found strangely suited to mingle with Mim's own expression of delight, and shook his head, "It is a pity, that. A good wine with the right food is as close as a man - or woman - can come to heaven outside of a wonderful dining companion."

"Flattery, Bartholomew?" Mim asked with a raised eyebrow, earning a faint flush from her nemesis... A word she found harder and harder to apply to the often charming, if just as often bedeviling, man. "Next thing you know, you may be asking me to join you in your fiendish escapades!"

Mim barely held in a giggle as Bart almost snorted into his own wine, and put on an air of innocence as he gazed at her. "With your timing, my dear Miriam, I sometimes wonder who the fiend is..." he muttered in a droll fashion, not bothering to hide the smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

"I admit to nothing," Mim declared airily, holding a pose of exaggerated dignity, before winking at the man and taking another swallow of her wine, "How does this fine Christmas Eve find you?"

"As well as can be expected, considering recent news I've received." He pursed his lips immediately after saying the words. Even though they had met on a fairly regular basis over the prior year - whenever they were both in Paris at the same time, which had so far been nine meetings - she was still his enemy. His nemesis, even!

But if the look on the reporter's face was any indication, the proverbial cat had been let out of the bag. Sighing, he favored her with a wry smile. "I suppose I'll have to expound upon that, eh?"

"It would be the gentlemanly thing to do, Bartholomew," Mim smiled sweetly. Bart got the distinct impression of a pit fighting dog ready to worry on a particularly tasty looking bone.

Bart gave a resigned sigh, his mouth setting into a thin line as he thought about the best way to broach the subject. After taking a long sip of his drink, he gazed somewhat above Mim's head and spoke in a distant tone, "I received word that my father has throat cancer, which our family physician fears will soon spread to other tissues. He can barely speak or breathe as the tumors are slowly closing his throat. The family doctor says he shall not last past February, but knowing my father, he shall be alive at least until spring breaks."

"My sympathies." Bart looked at her sharply, but relaxed when he saw honest sympathy, and perhaps even grief, in her eyes.

"Thank you…" he smiled slightly, withdrawing a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from the coat around the back of his chair. He absently packed it and then fumbled about his suit jacket for his matches when a lit match was put up to his pipe.

Mim waited for him to get his pipe lit enough to draw from, then lit the cigarette held in her mouth, waving the match out and dropping it into the ashtray in the center of the table. She took a long draw and sighed a lungful of smoke towards the ceiling before prodding Bart gently, "Do you plan to visit him, Bartholomew?"

"Miss Go and I are leaving this evening sometime," Bart admitted, frowning slightly, "I'd like to be back in Frankfurt before daybreak. Christmas with my father and the rest of his side of the family is always enjoyable, and with this likely his last, I should think even my mother would not care to sully it!"

Mim opened her mouth to speak, but the vehemence of Bart's last comment took her off guard. _A _very_ sore subject…_She could see some deep seated pain hidden behind his eyes, and the intensity with which he drew from his pipe implied it was far deeper than she could see. Instead of pushing as her curiosity wished to do, she changed her line of questioning slightly to a hopefully less sensitive topic, "How are your family's normal Christmas celebrations?"

Bart thought on it for a moment, before signaling a waiter. He asked the young man for a good cognac and two snifters. Mim's reaction was to tilt her head slightly, her eyebrows twisting in confusion. "Please indulge me a moment, Miriam."

The use of her name without the normal 'my dear' took her aback as much as his somber tone, and she nodded mutely, taking a long drag on her cigarette at almost the same time as Bart took a long draw from his pipe, and watched him closely. After the waiter returned, Bart checked the bottle and nodded his thanks before opening the bottle and pouring a healthy portion for each of them. They both sampled the bouquet of the drink, and Bart seemed to take particular care to admire its visual qualities, obviously deep in thought the whole while.

Finally having enough of waiting for him, Mim sipped at her drink, and found herself enjoying the subdued mix of fruit, the spice-like flavors and the dry, crisp texture and warmth of the liquor. _Much like Father's favorite Bourbons…_ Bart blinked and flushed slightly, realizing he had taken longer than he realized.

"My apologies," he murmured, sipping his drink and savoring it almost in the manner of a wine aficionado, before continuing, "I was lost in my memories. My family's Christmas Day celebrations are much like this cognac… Warm, comforting, rich and filled with subtleties of aroma, texture and flavor in a literal and metaphorical sense…"

Mim stared at the man; she was used to hearing hyperbole and wrathful declarations from, not having him to wax so poetic. If his words had caught her off guard, his voice was even more unexpected. Gone was the bombastic, grating, broken tenor she had heard regularly for over a year and a half. In its place was a cultured, soothing baritone that sent a shiver of what she could only believe was shock down her spine.

She tried to think of the words to describe the dichotomy, but that very dichotomy struck her temporarily speechless. Mim relaxed slightly when a warm, honest smile slipped over his countenance, "The house will be gaily decorated, especially the Christmas tree, and warm of both air and emotions… My sister will visit with her husband, and she and her daughters will invade the kitchen to cook the dinner for the day… They will only have one or two of our servants to help, because, much to mother's chagrin, father believes that everyone able to should spend time with family…"

He didn't seem to realize he'd spoken so openly, yet continued his voice soft and so full of love despite his comment about his mother that Mim was nearly moved to tears, "But my sister, her daughters and the few servants remaining will fill the house with such _wondrous_ odors and aromas… The first thing laid out will be several types of _Plätzchen_; cookies in English… The _Weihnachtsstollen_, a wondrously flavorful, rolled cake filled with fruits and spice, will usually be out next, but set to cool in the kitchen to keep greedy hands from them…"

He sighed, and then nodded as if recounting a regular occurrence. "Not long after the pork _sauerbraten _is started, my uncle Joseph will arrive, though this year he is bringing his bride to be. I look forward to meeting her as I have heard wondrous things of her from our mutual acquaintances… My aunt Helen may visit if she is not too sick, possibly bringing along her daughter, my cousin Elise…" He paused, sighing wistfully, "My cousin Edward was always there, but he was killed in China during the siege on the Legations in nineteen-hundred…"

Mim was just stubbing out her cigarette, having been so comforted by Bart's description of his family's Christmas which was so like her own. Yet when she heard where his cousin had died, she flinched and a few tears spangling her vision. She quickly withdrew another cigarette and a match from their case and lit it, hoping the noxious fumes from the match would explain away the tears if Bart saw them and asked. She normally didn't to smoke in such a fashion, not wanting to appear to be a hanger on to the seeming fashion some women put into smoking; but sometimes, needs went before wants.

He did not seem to notice her reaction, still staring off into the space above them with a subtly melancholic smile, "Even mother will probably assist in setting the table when the time comes, if just to ensure it is done properly… By the time my sister is finished in the kitchen, we will have more cookies, _Germknödel_ and _Semmelknödel_, _Käsesahnetorte_, _Kartoffelklöße_and many other dishes…"

He paused as a chuckle was startled out of him, and turned his attention back to Mim, "And of course, the giving and opening of presents… But I am sure that most households know of the joy that brings, especially with family."

"That sounds beautiful…" Mim said in a subdued, almost awed tone, shaking her head in wonder at the oddly homey scene her foe had painted. Strangely, she had always pictured him being an only child, spoiled as could be by a doting mother.

"It is, but…" he shrugged expansively, before taking a long pull from his nearly doused pipe, puffing until the tobacco was smoldering properly again, "It shall probably be the last such Christmas." He shrugged when he saw the small pout on Mim's face, and shrugged, "_C'est la vie_, as the Frenchmen say. What about you, my dear? Your family must have been quite something to have produced a woman as intriguing as yourself, especially around Christmas."

"Oh," Mim sighed as she was flooded with pleasant memories of her last Christmas at home, "Oh, yes, it truly is…"

"Tell me about it?" Bart requested quietly, resting his elbows at the very edge of his chair's arms, clasping one hand over the other and leaning forward to rest his chin upon his hands.

Mim was caught somewhat off guard by his actions and was still recovering from how… Warm he sounded at that moment. With a shy smile, she obliged him, "Our Christmas is... Well... Surprisingly very similar to yours, as unlikely as it sounds." She blushed lightly, her voice taking on a demure tone she would have denied profusely had she heard it, "Our family is originally from Germany and we kept most of the traditions, so I am familiar with what you described. Especially the wonderful food!"

"It is one of the things I love about the Fatherland," Bart agreed, cocking his head slightly to the left. "Have you been there since you have been in Europe, Miriam?"

"A couple times," Mim nodded, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray, "Ironically, not in relation to any of _your_ plots." Bart chuckled, and Mim leaned back, bringing her snifter of cognac to her lips to take a few sips before she picked up her thread from a moment before, "The food, though… I _love_ my mother's _Plätzchen_, especially _Mandel Spritzgebäck_ and _pfeffernüsse_. Then there's my father's wonderful _sauerbraten _and goose, though his trout course is the best."

"Judging by the accent, your family is Bavarian?" Bart asked with honest curiosity, and Mim nodded.

"_Mein Großvater war aus München,_" Mim tittered slightly, "I have not used German in years, I am quite certain my accent is atrocious."

"Not at all," Bart shook his head, his tone and the look on his face sincere. "I am a native of Germany, so I would be one to know." He blinked when he saw Mim's eyebrows screw together and shoot towards her brow and once. The outright cuteness of the expression gave him a sudden thrill, very similar in fact to a rapid descent in his airship, and he took a healthy sip of from his snifter.

"I would have never guessed," she noted as he set his glass back down. "You sound as if you have lived in America your entire life!"

Covering further for his strange reaction, Bart reached for a napkin to wipe his brow as he bashfully continued, "I speak English very well, I know. Just like a first language according to Miss Go, and yourself as well as a few other Americans I have met that know my birth country."

He pursed his lips, debating whether to give her an explanation, or to hedge against it. With a minute shrug, he continued, "My mother would not allow for imperfections such as an accent to hold fast for me. She has it in her head that the American accent is more neutral than British English, though why she felt the need for such I have not the faintest idea." He noticed the topic was shifting with his curiosity yet sated. "Were your parents the only ones which you spent your Christmas day and meal with?"

"Had you not heard my mention of ours being similar to yours?" Mim said teasingly. "I have a brother, merely an adolescent at this time." Her gaze became far away for a moment, as she relived a particularly fond memory, "He was always quick to wake when he was younger, doing his best to convince us all to get as much precious time out of the season as was there are my two uncles, Jason and Seamus, and my aunt, Sarah, who is ironically younger than I. And of course, all the children..."

"We all gather at my family's ranch, even the hands and their families. We all consider them to be nearly family, to be honest." She chuckled at a sudden thought, "Which made our rather modest home seem positively undersized!"

"You are from a ranching family?" Bart asked curiously, and Mim nodded with a rather proud smirk.

"Yes, some of the best thoroughbreds in the United States have been bred on our farm." Mim's smirk had become a positively glowing smile, and Bart found himself returning it in kind, "I learned some blacksmithing and before I entered college I was quite an accomplished farrier."

Bart looked quite honestly impressed with the information, and his words gave truth to his expression, "While I am good with riding and caring for a horse in the field, I was never good with the animals when it came to more intensive care."

"I tend to get along very well with animals," Mim admitted with a shrug.

"Which probably explains the ease with which you handled that camel in Morocco," Bart concluded.

"Yes," Mim agreed with a giggle, covering her mouth until she could stifle the sound. When she had her control back, she favored Bart with an apologetic look, "Poor Jon, however, suffered mightily at the hands of that stubborn beast!"

"It seemed the surly sort when Miss Go and I passed over hiring it and its rider at the stables," Bart admitted.

"Surly is not how _I_ would put it," Mim corrected. "More along the lines of stubborn, mean-spirited, hateful and unwilling to do more than the least it could to get by." She chuckled lightly as she added, "Dear Jon _still_ has a bruise on the back of his left leg from the worst bite the beast gave him.

Bart winced, understanding Mim's declaration. The very same camel had, when they were considering it, spat a significant amount of foul smelling, sticky spittle right into Miss Go's face. The only thing that had saved the animal's life had been the stable owner's willingness to offer a significantly reduced rate on the rental of a half dozen pack mules and two horses for their trek into the desert.

"Well, at least we all made it out of that sandstorm more or less intact," Bart said at length, grimacing, "Although the poor soldiers we had planned on stealing the machine guns from were not so lucky..."

"Why did you try and steal those guns?" Mim asked, then covered her mouth with her hand for a moment before reaching out to stall Bart when he opened his mouth, "I'm sorry, I should leave questions such as that out of our conversations here."

"It is no worry, Miriam," Bart soothed reassuringly. "To be honest, I had hoped to take the guns from the soldiers before they happened upon a settlement of anti-imperialist guerrillas. Alas, there was no need." He sighed lightly, glancing up, "I do hope they appreciated the small service I offered, though I am not an ordained minister... It was the least I could do."

"We saw the graves you dug for them," Mim said solemnly, taking a long sip of her cognac before continuing, "With the lack of blood, Jon and I both concluded they had been overcome by the weather, as I have yet to see or hear of you _or_Miss Go kill in cold blood."

"Indeed," Bart nodded, a rueful smile upon his face, "Though had we attacked them, at least they would have had a chance. One cannot fight against God or Mother Nature, after all."

"No, one cannot," Mim agreed easily, "'Tis folly..."

"Indeed... Besides which," Bart continued as if Mim hadn't spoken, "My father and mother raised me better than to be party to murder. My mother would likely have had my skin had I performed such a craven act! And she would have found out, one way or another..."

Sensing an opening which didn't seem nearly as sensitive as the earlier one, Mim casually asked "So your mother likes to be on top of things?"

Her attempts to keep it sounding normal caught Bart's attention. He shot her a sharp glare, completely unintentional, which seemed to suck the air out of his dinner companion's lungs. Realizing just what he was doing, Bart sighed, his shoulders sagging uncharacteristically. "My apologies, Miriam. I am overly sensitive whenever my mother is brought up. I should not take my distaste out on you."

"Twopence for your thoughts?" she joked, an obvious attempt to leaven the mood. It worked well enough to earn a sincere smirk from him.

"The price for my thoughts on my mother would require much more than a simple twopence," he countered with a charming smile.

"Then how about making it a present?" Mim suggested. "It is Christmas, after all."

"We have already exchanged presents, Miriam," Bart said, his smile turning smug.

"Oh?" the red-head asked, a teasing grin upon her face.

"Indeed..." he chuckled, "Or do you consider revealing anything about family between two enemies to be normal?"

"Ah," Mim agreed with a chuckle, "A point, good sir, a point... What of next year?"

Bart paused at the simple question. Even he did not plan presents a year previous to the date. It was very possible to make knowledge of himself and his mother her present, if she still wished for it the next year. But... To broach the subject of his mother was touchy business. He wasn't sure that he could even properly discuss the delicate, painful thing that was their relationship.

Glancing over at her, he could tell that even his mere hesitation had interested her enough to keep her thinking on it for a while. She could even do her own investigations into it, which would create a slew of new, even more alarming problems! Problems he found himself admitting intrigued him...

"What would I get in return?" he asked coyly as his mind continued racing for a suitable solution. "That is information that even my worst of enemies would covet. Surely one good present such as that deserves another like it." He reached for the bottle of cognac and raised an eyebrow at Mim, who nodded distractedly, and refilled both of their snifters to a level slightly higher than would be considered proper by a brandy aficionado.

Mim blinked while she processed that oddly cryptic answer. Why would his worst enemies desire such information as his relationship with his mother? Then again, he seemed more... Disgusted than nervous or worried.

"You say it is worth more than a twopence, yet your reaction is not protective, but more..." she paused, reaching for the correct word "Troubled. Tell me..." Mim sat forward, and favored him with an honest, open expression of curiosity, "What would be better, or perhaps easier, to discuss? Other family? Past - or perhaps present - loves or friends of certain convenience?"

He considered her last question with caution. Considering China was the only topic she cringed from thus far in their conversations; that and the prior lack of mention of a husband or love in her life, he felt it was safe to guess they were connected. Yet she had offered to bare such a thing in exchange for information about his mother or his own past loves.

He pursed his lips a moment, then carefully picked his words, "Perhaps you could tell me of your husband, or lost suitor... The one that I must guess died while in China?" Bart halted his words with a wince, realizing he'd allowed his mouth to get ahead of his mind, and favored Mim with an apologetic gaze.

And that was all he could do. He'd seen women wail in the pain of loss. Many a man would claim that native peoples of Africa were not but animals with no emotion, but he knew otherwise. He'd seen the pain, the agony in the eyes of men and women and children whose wives and husbands and parents had been cut down. And he had been touched, deeply, by it.

Yet the soul-deep guilt and sorrow that flashed across Mim's eyes took him aback in a way that no similar event had in the past. He couldn't help but to draw a comparison to soldiers he had seen fresh from the lines, having survived that which their fellows mere feet away did not. Her eyes were staring unfocused at the table while her hands gripped the arms of her chair with a strength that could have given a wrestler pause. While her breathing was steady, and her lip firm in set, Bart could have sworn he heard the barest hiccup of suppressed grief.

He would be the first to admit, even crow brazenly, that he was a villain. But he was also not the brute many felt was required of the role. He was a gentleman, dammit! No matter the situation, it was a deplorable thing to cause unnecessary pain to someone, especially a lady, or, in some ways worse, a woman he considered a gentle_woman_ in equal stead with any gentle_man _he'd ever met! It was, potentially, an unforgivable slight to his honor, a slight he'd inflicted on himself.

"I..." Mim's strained voice brought Bart out of his recriminations, and she sighed, "I apologize, Bartholomew. That was unladylike and rather uncalled for."

"Miriam..." Bart began, but she held a hand up with a gently admonishing smile.

"My reaction stemmed mostly from the fact that you had so correctly deduced such a detail of as my... My late husband." She shook her head as if a horse shaking away a persistent fly and shook her head, "It is rather unsettling to know that I am so easy to read!"

Bart nearly recoiled, from both the biting frost which now clung to her self directed comments and the strangely listless way she had spoken since he had asked. "Miriam," he began heavily, settling a hand around his recently refilled snifter, "I must once again apologize. I, too, have lost a love that was dear to my heart. I know of the pain you feel, yet I am acting as an ass, braying loudly with no thought on how I affect others as I go forth into the desert!"

"As do we all, from time to time," Mim said softly, reaching out her right hand and laying it gently on Bart's right before he could lift his snifter to his lips, "And I apologize as well for being such a silly girl for a moment. I am a grown woman, and had thought myself past his death, so your question was not so much improper as... Frankly... Unexpected, and rather blunt."

"Then we owe each other an apology," Bart said firmly, his sense of honor holding firm rein over him at the moment. It wanted him to take full responsibility for the pain he had caused her, however brief it may have been. After all, he had been the one to ask! But as he considered Mim a gentlewoman more than a lady, and she considered her reaction as much a guilty fault as he, his honor would accept a mutual apology. To his relief, Mim agreed.

"I can accept that, Bartholomew," she nodded, "And I accept your apology as well, if you accept mine."

"So it is agreed," Bart said, setting the snifter down and turning his hand to shake Mim's. She clasped his hand and they shook, neither of them realizing they'd held on a touch longer than protocol demanded. They let go after a few seconds of staring at each other. Despite himself, Bart felt a tingling where her hand had touched his. He tried to ignore it as he lifted the snifter to his lips. "So, then, this time next year, if we're still competing against each other, we shall tear each other's hearts out and lay them bare on the table!"

Bart's words were said in a faux jovial manner so much like his normal bombast that Mim almost cringed. "I suppose, though I would not say it in such a grisly fashion." Bart's look of surprise made her roll her eyes, yet chuckle at once, "While I am not an average woman, even I must draw the line at removing organs from a still-living body," she explained.

"I see," he said before suddenly switching gears and picking up his glass, a large smile on his face. "A cheer must be made in the name of the holiday. What say you, my dear?"

"To family, and..." Mim thought for a moment, then smiled lightly, a far off look in her eyes, "To family, and love, however you find it, or it finds you."

She raised her snifter of cognac, and Bart tapped his to hers, a soft, sad smile upon his face, "To family, and love..."

**MP MP MP MP**

Jon jumped up from the bed with a start as the hotel door opened just a few minutes before seven-thirty in the evening. He stared for a moment while trying to catch his bearings, still a bit disjointed from imbibing a few shots of strong, clear Russian liquor steeped with cannabis.

He watched Mim walk in and set a package down on the end table, almost gasping in shock as she cursed in an angry tone, "Just an hour or two? You pompous, money hungry ass! I'd have had more than a few choice words for you, had I thought your shit-filled brain could handle them!"

Jon's worry spiked higher when she growled incoherently and begin to pace back and forth, grumbling incomprehensibly under her breath.

"Mim?" he drawled lazily, "What's wrong?"

Mim, not having seen Jon when she came in the room, let out a startled squeak and spun on Jon, holding her hand to her heart. "I'm sorry, Jon, did I wake you?"

Jon shook his head, a reassuring smile on his face and concern writ plainly in his eyes. "No, Mim." Noting her oddly inconsistent behavior, he tentatively asked, "Are you okay?"

She sighed, walking over and sitting down on the end of the bed, "I... I'm sorry, Jon. I'm..." Tears sprang to her eyes and she clenched her fists in her lap, "I just... I was reminded of Christmas at home, and... And..."

Jon was immediately on his knees, drawing his friend and lover to his chest. He began stroking his fingers gently through her hair. "I'm here, Mim. Take your time… I'll be here for you."

Mim allowed herself, for the first time in almost six and a half years, to just cry. Even so, she tried to speak, her words halting between nearly body wracking sobs, "I... I remembered the Christmas... The Christmas in ninety-seven, Jon... Do... Do you remember?"

"The first Christmas after Al asked you to marry him," Jon nodded, then fell silent, waiting for Mim to speak in her own time.

"Y-yes..." Mim said softly a handful of minutes later, her voice calmer, if somewhat unsteady, "I... Oh, Jon, I miss him so, so horribly... I miss my family..."

"It's oka-..." Jon tried to assure her, but she pulled back suddenly, staring at him with an unreadable expression before her sadness seemed to intensify.

"Jon..." She reached a shaky hand to his face and cupped his cheek, "I... I'm sorry for you being here, with me... For being away from _your_ fami-..."

"No!" Jon barely contained his voice from shouting as he realized the source of her sudden bout of guilt, "No, Mim," he whispered, grabbing her hand and kissing it much as she had on the train from Italy to France a year before. "I'm here because I _want_ to be here, to help _you_. You're my best, my _dearest_ friend, and my family understands this! They supported me, as they _believed_ you when you claimed to be innocent. As did your family, although they dared not speak of it lest they risk problems with the law."

"I..." Mim whispered, then sighed, dropping her hand to his shoulder to grip it firmly, "Thank you, Jon."

"Thank _you_, Mim," Jon answered simply.

"For what?" she asked, cocking her head to the side, her voice only hinting at the grief she'd shown mere moments before.

"For trusting me, and believing in me enough to be the best friend a man could want." They stared at each other for a long moment, before Jon suddenly barked a laugh, causing Mim to squint her eyes and screw her eyebrows together in bemusement. "I'm sorry, Mim, it's just... This truce agreement, the one you have with Mr. L., the one Ms. G. and I seem to have bound ourselves to as well?"

"Yes?" she prodded in a drawn out tone that mingled confusion and frustration with his obtuse comments.

"Well, I ran into Ms. G. and had an interesting, and rather strange, erm..." he paused, pursing his lips and glancing at the ceiling as he sought the phrase to use. After a moment he shrugged, lying back on the bed and holding his arms out to his side as he continued, "Altercation is the wrong phrase, but it is fitting."

"Altercation." Mim's deadpan tone should have been a warning to Jon to choose his words carefully, but in his altered state of mind, he merely spoke as the words came to mind as he had been doing moments before.

"Yes," he chuckled. "I almost literally ran into her at a bistro as she was performing some shopping errand or another."

"What happened?" Mim's tone was a touch more strident, and Jon looked back at her, a guileless smile upon his face.

"We..." Jon's amusement nearly sounded like an outright laugh this time, earning a hard glare from Mim, "We merely reminded each other of the holiday truce agreement!"

"Jon!" Jon's amused tone did not sit at all well with Mim. "You ignored the tru-..."

Finally realizing that Mim's suddenly incensed tone was indeed bordering on anger, he was quick to reassure her she was misunderstanding him. "Not necessarily in the manner you're worrying, Mim!" This time he let out a long, uncaring belly laugh, a sound of such delighted humor that Mim managed to calm herself with the realization that he wouldn't laugh if a genuine fight had broken out.

When he regained control of himself, Jon continued, the occasional bubble of mirth slipping past his lips unimpeded, "You see, I was bumped into by a rather portly man and literally slammed into the table she sat at. She had been imbibing a touch more liqueur than most would during a late lunch. When she saw who I was, she started complaining. Not about the mostly eaten helping of potatoes I'd knocked to the floor, but the fact that I had spilled half of her drink of choice."

He paused, thinking aloud, "It was some strange syrupy drink that smelled of raspberry and honey… Anyway, she stood and called me a clumsy buffoon, and tossed the other half of the drink in my face. A strange reaction considering her complaint..."

"You seem..." Mim began, shaking her head, a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth, "Rather amused after having been called a buffoon."

"Well, I am often rather clumsy, Mim, and there _are _brighter men in the world!" His voice lost none of its edge of levity, and if anything was more so when he continued, "Well, having been taken off my guard, I called her a hot-headed trollop." He grimaced and winced slightly, even before Mim favored him with a disapproving stare, "I could have chosen better words, but at the time, I was not so amused as I am now."

"I should hope not," Mim murmured, swatting him on the chest for good measure.

"Well, she didn't take kindly to that, as I'm sure you can guess." The redhead nodded in agreement, and Jon winced at her disapproval. "So she grabbed my ear like a schoolmarm would..."

"Such as Mrs. Macmillan used to do oh-so-regularly?" Mim asked with a narrow eyed smirk as she recalled their shared childhood. A time she didn't like to think on often in relation to her education, but a good time for her and Jon.

"Almost as effectively, too!" Jon nodded enthusiastically, "After she grabbed my ear, she asked for an apology for the comment, which, with myself in such a position of disadvantage, I gave her. She then demanded repayment for the drink I'd spilled. I agreed, and after she calmed slightly, and while awaiting another drink, we spoke. After the drink arrived, she asked me if I should like some lunch, since she had a question or two of me. I obliged and we had a brief, if interesting conversation..."

He opened his mouth to say more, but paused as he realized he was about to, once again, say more than he should. Pursing his lips, he shook his head in the manner of someone befuddled by the entire situation and shrugged, "As I said, it was all rather strange."

Mim shook her head in wonder at her friend, favoring him with a smile, "At least you showed restraint and had your wits about you enough to stop when you did."

Jon relaxed when it seemed she had missed his cutting the story short and he nearly sighed, covering it by speaking, "Yes, I guess I did... Hehe..." He laid his head back, and then looked to his left as Mim's hand planted itself firmly on the bed beside his head. Then her other hand came down on his right and she quickly straddled his torso. When he gazed up at her half lidded eyes, he realized that Mim had more on her mind than conversation. He gulped as unobtrusively as he could, his mirth swept away in an instant. "Mim, are you sure? With your having suffered from your memories earlier..."

"Jon..." she said in a subdued, emotional tone, "I... I need this right now... I need _you_ right now." She looked slightly chagrined when she continued, blushing faintly. "I... I know this may seem... Untoward, but... I need to _feel _right now, and... Admittedly... To forget, at least a little bit... Please, Jon?"

"I..." Jon felt a brief stab in the heart at her words and some anxiety as to the situation. Thankfully, in his opinion, the anxiety was dulled and almost academic, though the emotional jolt was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. He reached up and cupped her face with his hands, giving her a hesitant smile and nod, "Okay, Mim. If you truly need this, I won't deny you, but please, I have to ask... Don't use me as a crutch of convenience, please?"

"Never!" Mim gasped, grabbing his hands and kissing the fingertips, "Jon... If... If I ever make you feel this way, you'll tell me...?" Jon opened his mouth to speak, but Mim shook her head firmly, "This isn't a negotiable request, Jon, this is how it _has_ to be. And it goes both ways! I never, _ever_ want you to feel used by me, and I want you to tell me if it seems I'm taking you for granted. Whenever it feels such, not just... Not just if we're about to have sex."

"Okay, Mim," Jon agreed after a moment, knowing just how serious her requests were and how deeply anxious she was by her rare use of contractions in her speech. After holding her eyes for a moment, he added, "I promise." After considering him and his significant pause, Mim nodded that she believed him, and carefully climbed off of him, undressing as casually as if she were alone.

Her casualness about her body never ceased to amaze and please Jon. She was an exceedingly beautiful woman, in his and many other men's opinions. He couldn't help but feel blessed every time they were alone together, even if no sexual dalliances were in the offing. _She will make some man very, very lucky someday..._ he thought with a distracted smile, standing up himself to undress, _And I must admit, part of me would not mind in the least if I were that man, but I will be content with whoever it is, so long as she's happy._

"So, Jon," she called out through as she pulled bent over to remove her stockings, "Just so I'm sure... The misunderstanding at the bistro was all that happened between you and Miss Go? There was no violence?"

"Oh, no, Mim," Jon assured her firmly, feeling sure that his skin was now covered in a sheen of nervous sweat, "No... _Violence_... I promise."

"Good," Mim said as she turned, shoving him backwards towards the bed just after he'd removed his undergarments, "I do _not _want to hear of violence between the two of you during an agreed upon truce!"

"Of course not, Mim!" he all but cried as Mim began to plant wet, intense kisses from the base of his neck towards the angle of his jaw. The motions and actions, though rare from Mim, were familiar to him in more ways than one, and he knew he was going to be busy for a good while again. With that realization, a sudden, desperate thought lanced through his entire being. _Oh, please, not like this again today... I'm _not_ a _machine_!_

**Authors' Notes**

Oh dear. Poor Jon. Looks like he's a bit in over his head! I'm sure most would be pretty pleased to be in his position. However, like his descendant Ron, he isn't quite an average guy.

Nothing like a bit of dark humor to try and lighten up a situation or conversation, eh Bart? Shame that it won't get either of them out of telling more about themselves next Christmas. Unless, of course, Miriam finally gets Bart to cough up the proof. But would it even matter if Bart's telling the truth about it all?

Miss Go and Jon's confrontation seems to have been a bit... Heated. At least he came out of it more or less unscathed, unlike most of his encounters with Mim. Of course, she comes out worse for wear as well; that dress was probably really itchy. And what was up with Bart's condition? Talk about bringing something up to drop it!

...or have we?

Bunches of thanks go to Alice Shade and Sir Sebastian for looking at this and doing some fact-checking. Couldn't have had a more fact-based story without you guys.

As always, there's lots of other fics out there, so keep up the reading, and don't forget to review the stories you like!


	3. Chapter 3

**Authors' Forward**

First off, our apologies for taking so long with this. We had a lot of back and forth on what to put in here, and how to present it, as well as how much prose and dialogue to use in its presentation. We were also a bit distracted by real life, so there's that as well.

As a note to readers familiar with history... There is mention in this and the next couple chapters of real places, events and matters of culture, interspersed with fictionalized happenings and historical figures, places and events. These are, of course, in part for the sake of the story, but as well, to show a possible alternative to the history of the Kim Possible universe in relation to our own. If you are a student of history, please keep this in mind as you read, and do let us know if it is compelling, and fitting within the greater scope of the past we delve into here.

This tea time is also going to end up being two chapters long, with events that follow on into a third chapter. Lots of ground covered between Mim and Bart, not to mention some rather important events in the third chapter. Nonetheless, we hope you enjoy!

**MP MP MP MP**

_December 24, 1907_

"Mim, you're really starting to worry me with the random running off, especially these last few months," Jon pleaded, "I'm... I'm worried, it seems so unlike you, and... I... I mean, you're not just going out to drink and forget about the problems back home, not being with your family because of Mr. L., are you?"

"Jon, I am not going out to imbibe alcohol!" Mim sighed, more than a tad annoyed at the tone in his voice, "Yes, I choose alcohol when I can not have my chamomile tea, but I do not drink to excess, so you needn't worry over me! I can care for myself quite handily, after all." Her arms were crossed over her chest in defensive petulance, and while her tone was more irritable than she'd intended, she chose to stand firm against his worries.

"You do know that I'm your friend, right?" he asked quietly, catching her off-guard not by how he'd kept the near pleading tone, but with the hurt she saw in his eyes. When she nodded he raised his hands to rest them gently on her shoulders, "Please talk to me. The two prior years, it wasn't so much more than was normal for you, but this last year... Over thirty times, Mim! I know you can take care of yourself, I know this, especially since you've been mastering this... Baritsu? No... Bartitsu! But so often this year, you've left without giving me word at all."

"Jon, I have trained in bartitsu for years, I am just refining its use of weapons of happenstance, such as umbrellas or can-..." Mim started, and he silenced her with a gentle shake of his head.

"I'm not saying that you can't go, Mim, or that you have to tell me every time you're going somewhere." He laughed lightly, despite his worry, "Even if I were your husband, or if you were someone else completely and I was married to that person, I wouldn't be like that. But, before, all the time we've known each other, you would let me know more often than not if you would be away for a time! It's just... It's worrisome that you're being so different than normal, so please... Let me know what's wrong, if there is anything wrong, or something I can help you with... Please?"

Mim sighed, knowing just how worried her friend was by the strange intensity in his strident tone. She wanted to ease his worry, so she reached up to cup his face gently, giving him a contrite smile, "I am sorry, truly sorry I have worried you so, Jon." Her murmured apology seemed to allay some of Jon's worry, and she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek as she had for years. "I am alright, Jon, I promise. But, since the Christmas before last, I have been..." she looked away for a moment, as if steeling herself, "Meeting someone, a dinner companion and acquaintance. That is all."

"For now," Jon concluded, a slightly sullen, but strangely supportive smile on his face, "Mim, just... Be careful, okay?" He gazed into her eyes searchingly, and found, unfortunately, something deep within. It was not fear, per se, nor was it worry, but something similar to both, with lesser intensity. To his mind, trained in detective work of a specific kind, it set off alarm bells that a suspicion he'd harbored so privately that he himself dared not contemplate it might be true.

He knew what he had to do, but bit the at his cheek for a moment, uncertain if he should take the plunge. He worried how she would react to the comment he had to make; it worried him that it might make her hate him, or distance herself from him, or from everyone. But, finally, he screwed up his courage and leaned in to kiss her Mim gently on the lips before pulling her into a close but not entrapping embrace, "After all, Mim, the truce with Mr. L. is only for the day before Christmas through the day after New Years, right?"

He hadn't been sure what to expect, but was almost startled when Mim relaxed. The tension release was much like when he and Albert had convinced her to admit to seeing Albert to her father, only to find out that Albert had long before asked - and been given - permission to court her. He pulled back slightly, both of their hands finding each other's shoulders, and he found himself with an entirely new worry at the relaxed, thankful smile upon her face.

"Thank you, Jon." He opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, but she anticipated his question, well, several of his questions, really, and laid a gentle finger on his lips, "Thank you for being a loving enough friend to say that. To not judge me for it." She paused and took a shuddering breath, shaking her head a moment before speaking, "I have been worrying for months for a way to tell you about... Well... Meeting Bartholomew outside of our clashes."

She paused again, thinking on her words. There was so much more she wanted to say to him, but was pressed for time. A shortened version, and a promise to tell him more later would have to do. She raised a hand back to gently cup his cheek once again, "As well, thank you for being so willing to let me hold onto my freedom in this. I know it must be hard, to know how I despised the man so, but I... I know you've said as much, especially after Morocco last year, that he is not as bad as we had once thought."

She dropped her hand back to his shoulder and looked down, resting her forehead on his chest, "I have no idea at all where this... This companionship of occasion with Bartholomew is going, but I feel it necessary. I... I had hoped, at first, merely to glean more information from him, to assist us in our endeavours. Now..." Mim shook her head, trying to gather the jumbled thoughts so as to convey her changed views properly. After a moment, she nodded firmly, and continued, "Now I hope to drag him away from this path of madness he is on, hopefully bring him back into civil society, where he can use that wondrously active mind of his to further the good of society, not fight it as he does. It feels a true waste for him to squander his talents with such fruitless and corrupt endeavors."

She looked back up, her eyes searching Jon's this time, and almost begging him to understand, "He is a good man, Jon. I know he is, and I wish to save him from himself."

Jon, despite the growing pit of worry and... Some emotion he couldn't quite put a finger on, gave his best friend an honest, caring smile and brushed a worried tear from the corner of her eye when she paused. "And Ms. G.?" he jokingly asked in a minor attempt to lighten the mood. Of course, bringing the subject to Bartholomew's beautiful subordinate served to remind him of a certain routine of his own, one he would be considered quite the fool by most men to ignore.

"She is an incorrigible wench," Miriam said, her lips quirking almost against her will, "But... From what I have come to understand, she is his bodyguard, and only goes along on his schemes to keep him from further injury than he normally suffers."

Her friend and lover sighed as he allowed himself to consider her words, being as subtle as he was able as he prepared for an outing of his own. She sounded sincere, something which served to twist his stomach as he considered how slippery Bartholomew could be. However, if Mim felt she could handle him, then there was only one thing he needed. "Mim, just... Just tell me, if you need me, for anything... And... Be careful, please promise me at least that?"

"Jon," Mim closed her eyes and drew a deep, cleansing breath before releasing it with the first honest smile Jon had seen on her face in over a year. "I promise, Jon," she held up a finger, a subtle note of mischief on her face, "So long as you are careful yourself, and promise not to overreact... That you promise to... To trust me. Possibles do tend to succeed against the impossible, after all."

"I promise, too, Mim." Jon nodded firmly. Suppressing the growing lump in his throat, he planted a trusting kiss to her forehead, "Now, it's seven forty five, you'd better move along!" He paused and screwed up his face and glanced up for a moment, "You normally leave in at a little before teatime so I guess since it's morning, it'll be a breakfast meeting with Mr. L." Mim laughed lightly at his so often strange thought process, and then relaxed further when he turned his guileless gaze back to her, "So you probably should not dally!"

Mim nodded and gathered her things, including the new, particularly stout umbrella she'd started carrying regularly since the events at the opium den the year prior. She paused at the door, looking back at her dearest friend, "Thank you again, Jon. I... This afternoon, or tonight, depending on when we are back together, remind me and I'll tell you, about the first meeting, and any of the ones you wish to hear of since."

Jon merely nodded, unsure if he could trust his mouth to speak, but gave her a winning, trusting smile. After all, no matter if it was him, or someone else that ultimately captured her heart, it was his duty as a friend to trust, and support, her. "I am here for you, Mim. No matter what! It's what friends do, after all."

Mim had already apologized, but at his words, paused again with her hand on the doorknob, looking at the floor. "Jon..." She swallowed, closing her eyes, "I... Am sorry, for keeping you away from your family so long. Especially since it seems I may have taken on another duty, other than clearing my own name! I just feel... So horrid about it al-..."

A gentle hand on her face stopped her. She started, not having heard Jon get up and move over to her, then let her face be turned so she could look into his eyes. "Miriam. Even if you've changed your mind, from proving your innocence directly, to changing Mr. L., it does not matter to me. I'm your friend, first and foremost. Not to mention, my family understands! Perhaps bringing Mr. L. to our side of the law will convince him to change his mind about your predicament, perhaps not! I, for one, have no such skill as foresight or such."

He chuckled, and even brought a bashful, if slight, smile to Mim's face. "Besides, I have always wished to visit Europe, and in our time here, we have helped people, and even helped Mr. Poirot on a couple occasions. I would not trade any of this time with you, as your friend, your lover... For anything, Mim. Even if we only stay as friends, even if our time together as lovers fades, you'll have me as long as you can stand me! You should know this!" Mim nodded, blushing slightly at his vehemence. He pursed his lips, reading the uncertainty still in her eyes, and smiled bashfully himself. "Besides... I do, as late, have some personal reasons for staying here in Europe."

"Who is she?" Mim's tone was somewhat flat, her protective streak kicking in, yet also teasing. "And is that why you have your nicer clothing out? Preparing to go see her?"

"That, Mim, is a secret." Jon held his nose up with aristocratic propriety, until Mim reached out and poked his belly lightly. He let out a woosh of air and smiled at her, "Perhaps I'll tell you later, when I ask about Mr. L." Mim opened her mouth to speak, but Jon held up a finger, "Perhaps, Miriam Possible! That is all you will gain from me for now! Otherwise, you'll be late for your breakfast!" With that, he opened the door for Mim and ushered her out, much to her laughing protests.

**MP MP MP MP**

"Miriam!" Bart stood up from his seat and bowed slightly as his usual dinner companion. He gave a dashing smile, a sincere one, as he said, "Thank you for coming to our meeting so early. I have a previous engagement which I cannot change or miss. It is..." he grimaced "A regrettable thing."

"Oh?" The redhead caught the dread in his voice and in his expression, but decided not to pressure him on it. She'd learned that pressing Bart for details when he obviously disliked the topic usually resulted in the cessation of talking altogether. That mistake was only made twice since their first meeting. "Well then, we should strive to make the most of this meeting. And," she gave a shameless smirk, "I believe, since it is morning, we will have to order a proper breakfast meal, instead of a simple snack."

"Yes, we shall," the gentleman agreed. "It will be a suitable distraction, if needed." At her puzzled glance as she sat down, he smiled sadly. "Our Christmas gifts for this year to each other..."

Mim's eyes clouded over with the reminder of their mutual decision. "Yes... I had forgotten," she said none too convincingly

"Obviously," Bart said with a smirk and a light bit of sarcasm. Mim could see in his eyes that he was merely putting on the airs of a man in a jolly mood, and couldn't blame him; he had a cloud of pain in his eyes that felt similarly deep to her own. Strange how easy he had become to read. It was a tad disconcerting, in a way. Ignorant of her thoughts, he asked, "So what should we order for our meal?"

"We are in the fine city of Paris. While I am sure we would both appreciate a good German dish, it would be more proper and a bit easier on the stomach to order a French dish," Miriam commented automatically, "After all, we are going to discuss topics of troubling import, I should think." With a start, she took note of the fact that they had both used 'we'.

A year ago he would have likely made it a request only of her, as it was the polite thing to do, and she would have insisted he order something for himself, for the same reason. But now it was more of a mutual decision, a change she approved of. After all, it wasn't very fair to treat her as a dainty thing, nor for her to take advantage of his largess as a gentleman, now was it?

"I most certainly agree. We shall enjoy a fine French meal," he said as he waved a waiter down. "Perhaps order a croissant, or if you'd prefer, a pain au chocolat each with some fine accompaniments to whet our appetites?"

"A chocolatine?" Mim barely repressed the desire to coo at the idea. "That sounds like a lovely choice. We must, as you implied, take time to decide on a proper meal!" Mim nodded with satisfaction.

A quick conversation with one of their regular waiters, a newer staff member who had only worked there for their last five or six tea meetings distracted them for a few moments. He took their order and offered a bit of advice which the two were tempted to follow. It was not often that one had the chance to taste some whale flesh in winter; it would be a fool thing not to heavily consider ordering when it was available.

"I do feel quite bad for the whales," Bart began inanely, sounding as if he were grasping for straws. "Being harvested and used in such mass quantities? It is as wonder there are any left! Such useful beasts, too... Oil, meat, bone, flesh... All versatile items which can be of great use in nearly any environment."

"That may be why they are sought after as much as they are," Mim pointed out. She decided to play this game, as she was about as ready to talk about her husband as much as Bart was of his mother and any loves or lovers he had been with over the years. Not yet, at any rate.

"Mmmm. Perhaps." What followed was an interesting and academic discussion on the effect of supply and demand on resources, including animal populations and poor weather patterns. It was obvious they were both avoiding the issue, but neither knew of a way to open the dialogue. The small discussion concluded with the decision to skip out on the whale, instead sampling some finely prepared roasted apples with fleur de sel and some monkfish. A simpler dish, but one which would be a tasty and filling treat.

They sat and chatted awkwardly after ordering, both of them dancing around the issue which had been the agreed topic. Mim could feel her brows drawing together as her mouth continued moving of its own volition. The annoyance crept into her head, unwanted, demanding that something worthwhile was discussed. It wasn't until their main meal arrived that she finally could not take the waiting.

"Bartholomew," she heard herself ask as she took an appreciative look at her plate, "Why do you dislike your mother so much?"

A long second passed - much longer than comfortable - before he softly replied, "It is a very long story, my dear."

"Then it is a good thing that we have this fine meal to give us reason for a long sit then," Mim said brightly. She gave him a simple smile in hopes of comforting him. To her surprise, it seemed to put him out even more, as he began to shift uncomfortably in his seat. Frowning, she grumbled "If you are going to be such a child about this, then I shall go ahead and tell my tales."

"That would be much too unfair!" the villain protested, his forlorn expression suddenly turning fiercely offended.

"Then I suggest you begin your story," she said, more sharply than she'd intended.

"Very well." Bartholomew sighed as he set his utensils down and gave her his complete attention. A strange reversal, as it was usually the listener who gave undivided attention. "Miriam, you would consider me to be a well-connected and clever individual, correct?"

She blinked at the question, wondering where he was going with this. "Yes... Your plans, while overly complex, are competent and your family name alone causes me grief in finding evidence to have you arrested."

Ignoring her small barb, he clasped his hands in front of him on the table. "My mother... She has a greater degree of skill at manipulation than I. One would never be capable of finding the evidence, as my mother never becomes directly involved. She may say something here, or mention another thing there, but one could never place the blame on her."

"I severely doubt that anyo-..."

"I was engaged when I was younger," Bart continued as if she hadn't voiced her protest, "A lovely lady named Annabelle. Her family was a well-established line of minor German nobles, and her mother was also of British descent. They lacked greatly in money, having squandered it in fake cures for her mother's ailing father which were, in truth, poisons. My family, particularly my mother, wished for a German title for the family.

"Annabelle was the only child of the line, a line which would likely end in humiliation without alternate funding, thus the pairing looked so be a solid affair. My family kept them afloat for several years, financially, literally until just after the first time Annabelle and I met; not long after, my Anna's grandfather passed, and we remained in constant contact with them and one of us would visit the other for seasons at a time." Bart paused, a regretful sigh escaping his lips, "It was good we were betrothed when we were both quite young, as her mother never did conceive again... It at the very least kept their line alive a bit longer..."

"I suppose this was a forced engagement," Mim concluded. How this had anything to do with his mother besides setting the engagement up she hadn't the foggiest, but decided to let it slide for the moment. He was a bachelor as far as she knew and it seemed to fit that he would dislike his mother for making him participate in a courting he wanted nothing to do with.

"On the contrary, my dear, it was a very happy and well-done pairing," he corrected almost amusedly. He gave himself a few seconds to calm his nerves, chewing a small bit of monkfish in thought. When he saw the small train of thought in Miriam's head reach the station as she dropped her fork in minor shock, he couldn't help but to give a bitter chuckle. "You seem to have a minor issue with my story thus far?"

"If the coupling was correct, and you are currently unwed... Oh Bartholomew, I am so sorry..."

He waved his hand. "Do not give condolences just yet, please; I have yet to finish this tale. I would prefer your sad wishes after you know precisely who died and how."

"Of course I know who died," she protested. "Annabelle must have!"

"Do you know who Annabelle was, though?" he asked quietly. "Had you ever met her while she lived?"

"I... Suppose I have not," Mim replied regretfully as she realized she had spoken rashly.

"I shall tell you of her then." Bart leaned back in his chair and seemed to begin to stare straight at her. "My dear Annabelle, who died so very soon after we finally wed..."

Over a minute passed with Bart remaining silent. Miriam began to squirm in her chair a bit as he didn't stop staring. It was unsettling in a way she couldn't pinpoint to have him look almost mournfully at her while saying another woman's name. She considered calling him out on his inappropriate behavior until she noticed his eyes were completely unfocused. He wasn't looking at her, she realized; he was looking into the past.

"The first memory I have of her is an amusing one, to be sure," he suddenly began, picking up where he'd left off. "We were but children, back then, she being nine years of age, and myself nearly so. She wore an absolutely ridiculous dress; fashioned after a dirndl, but all frills, lace, brocade and velvet! Thinking back now, I believe she had not even picked the dress out for herself. Forced to wear it by her parents in an attempt to impress, no doubt."

He sighed, a small smile gracing his features, "It was a disastrous meeting, at least it was considered so by the female adults of our families. I was a lad who was not to be kept from his playing, even with the request of my father and demands of my mother. A rather large brook flowed in the back of her family's home; I only wanted to be there. She..." he began laughing now, the noise filled with pure joy "She came into the brook with me! Her dress - I am certain that it was never meant for more than a showpiece - was absolutely ruined by the mud and water, not to mention ravaged by the wildlife we found."

"She played with the various creatures in the brook?" Mim asked, surprised more at that than the dress being ruined.

"Oh yes..." Bart focused on her for a brief moment, though his eyes quickly unfocused as he went back to reminiscing, "She was just as happy as I to be there. It seems that she used to play there more before, but her parents were trying to coerce her into a more... Feminine role." He chuckled, "Together, we both managed to catch a rather large trout. It almost got away, but we wrangled it in with all the zeal that two 9-year-olds could muster. We also caught a fair number of tadpoles. We used her apron, a soft, deep red velvet, to hold them, as they were such precious cargo... And used my large cap, which was imported from England, to carry the trout."

"I can just imagine her parent's reaction." the redhead deadpanned with a smile.

"Ah... The screams of motherly horror at their discovery of us at the brook..." He looked up at the ceiling, a small frown coming to his face for the briefest of moments. "That was likely the first thing which alerted my mother to her unsuitability. Anyway," he turned his head towards Mim again and she swore she saw a hint of a dark scowl at the mention of his mother, "Our fathers, while putting on airs of disapproval, saw how... Close we seemed, even at that early of a time, were more than happy after everything was said and done."

He smirked, banishing thoughts of his mother for a moment, "The trout, I assure you, was delicious. The next day, she wore a less luxurious dress, one which seemed more appropriate for a merchant's daughter. An apparent attempt, I'm sure, to punish her for such unladylike behavior. Considering she went with us, my father, her father and myself, on a horse riding trip to one of her father's sawmills, I think she rather approved of the dress."

He sighed, "Alas, I did not see her for nearly four years after that." He pursed his lips, his brow coming together and his eyes darkening enough to make Mim flinch, "Her grandfather passed four days to the hour after our trip to her father's sawmill began..." Bart sighed, "He had apparently fallen ill from bad food... Unable to fully waken, yet unable to sleep... He was very anxious, his heart beating like a timpani, he was awash in sweat as if in a desert, yet claimed to be chilled as if the middle of winter..."

Mim cocked her head slightly at his tone of voice, and sudden pause, as if he were considering something. The tone, and his pause were niggling at the back of her head, yet she could not quite put a finger upon the reasons, and prodded gently, "Why were you unable to see her for nearly four years?"

"My mother claimed it was for proper, courtly training in her home country..." Bart grimaced as if in disbelief, shaking his head slightly before continuing, "Yet, I am fairly certain it was all so my mother could use her influence and threats to extort a more agreeable position from their family after that." He leaned forward, his eyes boring again into Mim's, "Know this, Miriam: My mother can be... Demanding, if not outright forceful, when she feels she has the upper hand. She tried, oh, most certainly, to convince me there were better women for me, but I held firm."

He sighed and closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them and cast them down to his breakfast plate, spearing a piece of his fish spitefully and chewing it with gusto. He took a sip of his coffee after swallowing his fish, speaking so softly Mim strained to hear him, "The only time... Much to my eventual regret." Mim opened her mouth as if to question him, but she quickly realized he had no idea he'd spoken aloud. She waited, and was rewarded for her patience as he again spoke, "Our next meeting, those many, many months later, was..."

"Was?" Mim asked after a long moment, and he looked at her as if startled.

"My apologies." Bart smiled apologetically, "Our meeting was as if a day had not passed. And she had become more than the cute girl that I had played with in a brook on her family's land. She was... She was just past twelve, Mim, but she was... Very, very pretty, beautiful I dare say, even at that young age..." His voice took on an almost breathless quality, "She... She was glowing, and despite her more lady-like bearing, I could see the mischievous girl; I knew, at that moment, I had fallen for her those two years earlier..."

"You still liked her, and she you?" Mim asked as he paused, lost in his thoughts.

"No..." Bart said in a vaguely distracted manner, his face screwed up in an odd look that mingled concentration and melancholy, "I had already fallen in love with her, and she, with me. A strange occurrence, I know." He glanced back down at Mim and shrugged helplessly, before reaching out and sipping at his coffee again. "I was honestly surprised she was at our home, I must admit. It turned out her father had moved his small business headquarters close to Frankfurt, and the family within a brisk walk from our home. Her father's excuse was that he wanted her to go to the superior schools in the Frankfurt area. While that was true, Anna told me the real reason was so she and I could be closer together. I know I felt my father's hand in it all, so it did not surprise me."

"Was the engagement still in effect?" Mim asked curiously.

"It was," Bart's smile was winning as he continued, "Over the next few years, she grew more and more beautiful, and more outspoken in her love for me... And yet, she still harbored behavior that my mother detested so! Yet she know how, by then, to hide it behind the appearance of civility and the charm she had so easily gained in her time away... Because of all this, my mother had decided to, as she said, 'Let things lie, as she seems to have learned the proper place of a lady.'" Bart leaned back, holding his coffee and its saucer as if holding a glass of tea, smiling as if he had a secret, "How wrong she was... By the time we were sixteen, we had decided upon our wedding day. The following spring, a month after my birthday.

"She was looking forward to it, as was I." Bart sipped and looked up to the ceiling once again. "She had, to my eyes, transcended the mere beautiful... Seeing her at school, she was like a lily among daffodils, even when she was dressed plainly. Many of the boys, and even men, were quite jealous." He smirked, nodding at something, "That, in fact, is why I took up both fencing and wrestling. I was, unfortunately, forced into more than one duel, all of which I was the victor." He glanced down with a surprisingly regretful expression on his face. He pulled up his jacket to his elbow, indicated a long, thin, deep scar, shaking his head with a grimace, "As you can obviously see, it was sometimes quite a close thing. I so detest the habit of dueling, but alas, there is not much that can be done unless more reasonable minds, ones which have no involvement, can settle the bloodlust."

"I don't quite understand why they objected to your courtship," Miriam grumbled, his story of the aristocracy he'd grown up in agitating her fiercely. "Was it due to the higher standings you both had?"

"Yes... And no." A wisp of sadness came to his face for a moment, for reasons Miriam was unsure of. "As I have said already, she was a beauty among the beautiful... And, frankly, there were plain and worse among the inbred families of the titled elite. Likely the reason her father was more willing to marry her off to me instead of an erstwhile cousin, no matter how distant that relation."

His eyes shifted, an emotion that Mim couldn't pin down crossing his face. "That did not sit well with them. For while my family had more money than most, they had less than others... Yet we, despite our at first seemingly low standing, had a good deal of clout! Even so, when it came to my courtship with Anna, we were nothing but lower-class bumpkins." He stared into his coffee before taking a gulp that drained it.

He took a moment to pour himself more, and a cold smirk crossed his face, drawing a subtle shudder from Mim. "They tried, many times, to lord their positions over mine and my family's. But due to my mother's position as the daughter of a family with a middling level of title in Britain, they could not. The simple fact of being her son gives me noble blood, even without the title her family holds. And with our engagement firmed up into an impending marriage, Anna's family clout was only added to ours!" Grunting as if in offense to the very thought of titles, he continued in a slightly harsher tone, "Nonetheless, they tried... It did not help that many of them considered only our looks in how well we fit the social hierarchy."

The redhead blinked in confusion before realizing what he was implying. "So... They had thought you too... Uh..."

"Ugly as a deformed English bulldog," Bart said bluntly, taking Mim aback. "There is no kind way to say it, and they certainly did not spare any words in conveying their feelings to me."

"They may come from the noble class, but there is certainly nothing noble about that behavior!" Mim said with a frown, "Ungentlemanly and unkind; poor combinations for so-called elite."

"Indeed..." He added under his breath, almost so low Mim missed it, though his next comment was quite audible, "Ironically, those ungentlemanly attitudes were a boon in some cases." The comment seemed incongruous, a tangential commentary at best. Mim let it slide however; she knew from prior meetings that while he sometimes seemed to be off track, it all tended to touch back upon his primary point. "It was that very social status that they tried to lord over me that allowed me to bypass some duels. There were those that acted in an ungentlemanly way towards me, whilst I was - even among those who thought so little of me - considered the consummate gentleman."

"I..." Mim started, pausing to sip some tea as she sought the words, "I know of how the gentry in the southern states of the Union went about such business before it was outlawed - as well as the fact that it still happens, despite the laws - but I am not entirely familiar with how it is done here."

"Quite simple, my dear," Bart's voice took on a manner that would be very similar to a teacher, if Mim could discount the scornful bitterness she heard, "If they were below my station as a gentleman, or if, even with proper standing, it was agreed by all parties that they were acting far enough out of proper, gentlemanly etiquette, I had grounds to refuse any duel from them, losing neither face nor social status."

"Curious..." Mim spoke in a drawn out manner, wondering on the differences between the Europeans and the Americans.

"Indeed? Perhaps..." Bart's face relaxed slightly, his voice calming a tad, "I will admit that, in some ways, it is good we lived in Germany, though being French would have served my interests more in this area. I detest pistol dueling; although I was forced to participate in it on a few occasions, it is considered far more courageous to duel with the swords or the like." He grimaced in distaste, shaking his head sadly, "Miriam, it pains me to admit but I have been in a total of twenty-seven duels in my life, nineteen of which were to the death."

He took another sip of coffee, the barest hint of laughter in his voice, "Of the eight duels that were not to the death, three were with blades, one fisticuffs and the rest wrestling. Had I been able to, all of my duels would have been by hand, but alas..." He shook his head and gave her an expansive shrug.

"I understand," Mim said softly, startling him, "I wish I did not, but I do... My... My husband, Albert, was forced to defend both his honor and my own, on a few occasions."

"I see..." Bart smiled and leaned forward slightly, bringing his eyes down to her level, "But I feel it was not because you were considered unpleasant upon the eye. And I cannot help but doubt your husband was anything less than a fine looking man."

Mim was taken aback by the frank, and accurate appraisal. Again, she cursed herself as easy to read, but hid her self-directed irritation well as she smiled back at him. "He was indeed, Bartholomew. Very handsome, and quite dashing. He could not abide by the sordid whispering some of our neighbors did right in front of us, especially if it tarnished my own name. Every bit the gentleman of someone else I could mention." She paused, fighting a flush of pleasure as her barbed dart struck true, almost laughing as none of it showed through to her face. "Be that as it may, I cannot help but object to your former fellows treatment of you. You are not someone that one could expect of a romantic dime novel. But neither are you the bulldog of such imbecilic, asinine fools' accusation!"

"A... Very apropos description of them, my dear." Bart drew a breath and let it out slowly, trying to ignore the other implication of her declaration even as it sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine, "And that is a lion den that I, unfortunately, must endeavor to enter soon enough, at my mother's behest." He took a few sips of coffee, finishing it and staring at it consideringly, continuing as if thinking aloud, "Would that I was the simple boy I was then, than the man I am now..."

"Bartholomew...?" Mim asked hesitantly. The story he was portraying was already marked with pain; she could feel it in every word. But the simple wish to return to his boyhood it seemed to bring his pain into stark, unflinching focus.

"Excuse me." Bart waved his hands as if trying to clear the air. "I tend to get lost down memory lane more than I would care to admit." He laughed, a forced one to his tablemate's trained ear. He signaled a waiter, and asked for a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses, glancing at Mim as she raised an eyebrow, "In case we desire more than coffee or tea, my dear... As for my memories... It is a bit of a curse of excellent recollection. One never truly forgets anything, though details can sometimes become muddled.

"As I was saying earlier," he went on before Mim could speak, "We were now within a brisk walk of each other. While that meant that we could be together more, much more... It also meant that my mother could more easily critique her... Suitability..." His tone became somber, emotion draining with every word. "She saw Annabelle and I as we became closer, learned more of each other... Made plans for our future. It was, it seems, not what my mother had pictured for me in the least, despite admitting Annabelle was suitable to me. My mother had grown up in a titled family. She had certain expectations of what would come with my marriage to Anna."

"I cannot see why she would object any more than I could see your classmates objecting."

A bitter smirk came to his face. "And that, my dear Miriam, is a tell for your lack of involvement in nobility and the politics involved!" The waiter returned with the bottle and the glasses, and Bart glanced at Mim. She shook her head with a smile, and he glanced over, signaling for one glass to be filled.

"How so, Bartholomew?" she queried after the waiter left, a hint of annoyance in her tone.

"My apologies for not qualifying my words, Miriam." Bart had the decency to show a touch of embarrassment, and continued in a brisk fashion, "While your American gentry may have a long standing, and in the opinion of some European nobles, laudable take on proper behavior and social bearing, the European notions of nobility and cross class interaction has been strong for centuries. They also have a dogmatically powerful view on appropriateness, especially between those to be married. It can be..." he grimaced, searching for the right word. "Frustrating, to say the least."

"I see..." Mim drew the words out, her face screwing up as if tasting something foul.

"I believe you do," Bart agreed, continuing in a subdued, almost mournful tone, "My mother was always looking for a way to increase the family name. Marrying into a noble family, no matter how minor the title, seemed the perfect first step. A lady, one who would carry her proud German heritage with ease while holding on to her proper English roots, would have been the ideal set-up for building our family's status." An almost proud smile brightened his face, almost completely banishing the melancholy of a mere moment before. This left Mim wondering if it was truly possible to feel so many emotions in such a short span of time. "You see, because my mother was not only a woman, but the youngest of a large family, it was always extremely unlikely that her family's title will pass to us, even if the prestige did."

"Thus her drive to obtain a title," Mim finished, catching on. Connecting that thought to the earlier explanation, she continued, "Your mother must have felt being married off to a lady that acted the commoner to be a slap in the face."

"Indeed," he sighed, though it sounded more irritated than upset. "If my grandparents-whom I have never met-had simply tried to find my mother a titled family instead of selling her off to the highest bidder-"

"Your grandparents sold her?"

"It does not sound as poor as you would think," Bart said hastily. "They had looked into my father's past and his company. He was deemed satisfactory in keeping my mother in the lifestyle she was accustomed to as an upper-class woman."

"Hmph," Mim grunted. "I'm assuming there was a dowry involved, at the very least."

"Erm..." Bart tried not to sweat in fear as he recognized Miriam's signs for growing anger. "Yes... In a way..."

"...I'll also assume that it was not the usual type of dowry," she said with narrowed eyes.

"...it was more of a reverse dowry..." Bart regretfully admitted.

"...so your mother truly was sold to the highest bidder, as you said," Mim commented calmly. That served to take Bart straight to terrified. He knew what Miriam did when she was truly angered. He also knew that the targets of her rage would be completely and utterly annihilated by the redhead if she became angered beyond all reason.

"What are your thoughts on this?" he managed to say in an almost normal voice.

"My thoughts are... That your grandparents should never meet me lest they find themselves facing the Grim Reaper shortly afterwards," she happily replied.

"I shall try to remember that for another time," Bart said, glad that the anger was not directed at him. He had the flitting thought of why she wasn't as upset with being tagged as a criminal as she was with learning his mother's marriage arrangement, but that was quickly swept aside with Miriam's next few words.

"Your mother looks to have come from a tainted stock."

Bart frowned. "That, my dear, is harsh language, especially considering the fact that if she is tainted, I am as well."

"Why do you think that I was not considering you in this equation?" she blithely commented, though the twinkle in her eye told him that she was teasing.

"Because I am most certainly not tainted," he sniffed playfully, the topic having completely taken his mind off of the previous painful discussion. "I merely have different goals and thinking processes than many people, not to mention the drive to try and obtain that which I desire."

Though he had forgotten, Mim had not. "So Bartholomew, getting back to the point, your mother went from desiring Annabelle as her daughter-in-law, to accepting her, yet despising the very idea of your marriage to her?" Seeing his face slowly fall, she felt a small twinge of guilt. However, her curiosity quickly overrode her guilt as she reminded herself that she had yet to hear the entire truth of the matter.

"My Annabelle would not be so easily caged in a role she did not wish to play, and when we finally did marry, she proved herself as independent minded as I could have ever hoped!" Bart said simply, cutting the complicated string which would have been his blow-by-blow account of his mother and Anna's fighting. "That was unacceptable and, frankly, offensive to my mother. And so," he attempted to shrug indifferently, "Anna had to go. At least it waited until after the marriage... Otherwise, of course, the entire plot would have been a waste."

Miriam's brow rose at the wording, but before she could fully ask about it he continued, a bitterness to his tone that she felt deeply, "It was a wonderfully bright day, the day it happened. My Annabelle was quite gay, as we had gone to my family's home in the country to ride horses," he continued, heedless of Mim's gaze. His words at odds with his tone, sounding painfully empty to Miriam. "I felt a strong worry at the start of the day, something I would later note to be a hint of premonition. I told her, of course, of my fears."

A bitter bark of a laugh caused the worry in the redhead's heart to double in weight. "She had said something along the lines of me being too timid to ride against her in a race." With Mim's questioning glance, he added, "It had become customary for us to race our favorite horses whenever we visited the Lipsky family home. Anna always bested me when it came to them, yet we raced nonetheless."

"How did she die?" his dining companion blatantly asked. As she cringed away from his glare of annoyance, she secretly felt pleased at her impulsive interruption of his story. His mood was clearly falling with each revelation, and she wasn't entirely sure that she could handle much more, much less himself. Better to interrupt and break the mood for now than to have either of them completely overcome with emotion.

After a long moment, Bart's eyes lit up almost in understanding as he answered in a much brighter voice. "It was her horse. The fool thing supposedly became fearful during our race. It began to toss itself about wildly. I was so panicked. Foolishly so." He chuckled darkly. "I tried to use my own horse to rein her in. The horse, not Anna."

"Wait..." Mim flashed back to a few seconds before. "You two raced your favorite horses. Surely it would not have thrown her out of fear."

"I am glad that you see the problem with the idea of a simple accident," Bart nodded. The redhead flushed out of indignation. Did he really think that she wouldn't notice the discrepancy?

Apparently so, considering the words, spoken as if he had read her very thoughts, "Many seemed to think that it was the horse being jittery, or that my Anna had done some foolish womanly thing to cause her own death. A doubly foolish thought all on its own." The Germanic gentleman stared into his empty cup for a few moments. "I may have been better off leaving it be, as an accident. However..." He once again sighed. "I demanded an autopsy be done, on both her and the horse, as the horse was disposed of after the incident. Her family was mortified, but I was... Persuasive."

"Foul play is obvious, here. The only question I have is how? How was a culprit able to get onto your property and cause the horse to lose its temper? Or was the problem in Anna herself?"

"It was the horse," he said. "I had half expected there to have been poison or a paralytic at work, with how unlikely death would have been from a simple fall as she had. My Anna, however, was simply unlucky, landing so her head found a stone hidden within the sod, which she smashed hard enough to turn a portion of her brain to mush. As to how the tragedy occurred, the horse had been drugged. A madness-inducing drug. The poor creature received a mercy kill with the bullet to its brain. As to who had done it, it was a recently hired groundskeeper."

He winced as the facts played through his head, the simple, painfully bare, and untwistable facts. "The fool was..." Bart paused in his story and unexpectedly chuckled. With a frustrated glance from Mim, he swiftly explained, "I have gone into far too much detail already. One would wonder if I were trying to tell a bland, uninteresting fiction! Anyway, to cut it short and to the point, he held a terrible grudge against my Anna's family. One which, he felt, could only be buried with spilt blood. Of course," he allowed himself a light growl as a flash of hatred lit up his eyes, "there had to have been someone to hire the fiend, whose intention was glaringly obvious with but a cursory glance."

"Who had hired the hand which was the guilty party?" Miriam asked almost breathlessly, the several seconds of silence making her chest constrict as she seemingly hoped against hope she had guessed wrong about the culprit.

Bart looked at her with a similar expression on his face to hers, and his voice was barely a whisper, "My mother had."

Mim, despite having guessed correctly, and much to her regret, was unable to hold in her shock. A loud gasp leapt from her throat, startling a passing waiter into nearly dropping the meals he was delivering. Embarrassed in more than one way, she ducked her head and blushed. It was the obvious conclusion to make, one she already had, what with the way he talked of his mother and the direction of the discussion. Still... To actually hear him say it...

"Of course" he tried to smooth over the revelation - and Mim's reaction - by explaining further "my mother insisted that it was all a misunderstanding. She simply 'did not realize' his past with her family."

Miriam briefly wondered if Bart had noticed the intensely sarcastic tone which crept into his voice. "And there is evidence pointing in the other direction."

Secretly glad that she had stated it instead of asking, he supplied "My mother always has whoever works for us scrutinized in a way which even the British Queen's personal bodyguards could not live up to. However... With this position... She..." He took a large breath, feeling like he was drowning in his anger. "She told the help to simply hire the first to apply. And, amusingly" he bit out with heavy sarcasm "the first person to apply came just a mere few hours after the position was placed with a work office. They would have had to start running in from town the very second word reached there."

"Wouldn't that provide a great deal of scandal? There's little doubt she was involved in some manner..."

"You forget three very important things, my dear: Annabelle's family did not wish for such scandal, my mother is much too well connected to ever be looked at officially unless she's holding the bag with all the evidence while confessing, and there is always enough plausibility to keep there from being a certainty in her guilt."

Mim had the distinct impression that the last two were more generally directed than the first one. A curious thought coming to her mind, she asked "Why, then, do you still force yourself to be around her?"

"I do not force mysel-.."

"Hogwash!" she snapped loudly, loud enough to draw curious stares from the surrounding diners. Quieting her voice, Mim repeated, "That is hogwash and you know it!"

He sat there, staring into his drink for what felt like several minutes. She wondered if he was trying to ignore her points, the thought irritating her, until he let out a light snort. "You do not quite grasp the relationship with my mother." His voice was heavy with regret, for what reason Mim knew not. "I suppose that is my fault; while I've explained some of her evils, I have failed to explain what may be her greatest, and most successful."

Mim quieted down for the moment, looking to Bart meaningfully while refilling her tea. While he gathered his thoughts, she ate the last bits of monkfish.

"I love my mother," Bart said mournfully, as if saying it was equal to admitting slaughtering a child in cold blood. "She is a horrible woman who will more than likely freeze in the deepest pits of Hell, a woman who I wish much pain upon, and hope to never gain her wrath as she is close to Satan incarnate as I can imagine... Or, I suppose, would ever dare to imagine... However..."

"There should be no 'however', Bartholomew!" Miriam interrupted, annoyed. "She is obviously a horrid woman. How you could stand to be around her makes me wonder on your mental capacities..."

"I often wonder on them myself," he agreed, making her blink at the unexpected point in her corner. Looking up at her, he explained, "It is much too obvious to those who look that she is a horrid woman. There is nearly no redeeming qualities in her, save for her intelligence. I simply cannot forgive her, ever, for what she did to my Annabelle. Yet, even with how horrid she is, I cannot make myself disobey her. I always listen to her, now, no matter how much I wish not to."

"Is it really that hard to not listen?" Mim asked rhetorically.

"Yes, it is. Painfully so," Bart said bluntly. "The one time I managed to hold firm in relation to Anna I was forced to bed for a week. I was delirious with panic and pain for most of the time." His eyes dimmed as he added, "Though... That did lead me to my second, and rather ill fated, bout with the devil that is love."

The odd admission set warning bells off in Mim's head. What he was saying now in connection to everything she had heard... It did not make sense! How could either a boy or a man become ill simply from denying their mother something? It was an oddity among the strange, what with the tales she had been told of his previous adventures and interactions.

Bartholomew sounded to have been a strong-willed boy and, likely, an even stronger-willed man. To not have the willpower to say no except to the point of illness indicated that he had been trained to fall to his mother's will. It seemed an odd conclusion in itself, but Bart was not one to cow under strain of word lest unimaginable threats were made, and Mim doubted there was anything left in his life to be of such value to make him meek enough to never disobey. Not to mention his implied blind obedience when he was a child.

However, the conclusions she was drawing from this were nearly beyond belief! The plot would require mental and emotional training from even Bart's youngest days. Training him to become deathly ill every time he disobeyed. That would necessitate causing the desired result just after the unwanted behavior.

While she was not the greatest fan of Freud, there were some of his theories which she could support. Mim also enjoyed reading magazines describing the happenings on the frontier of psychology. Mr. Thorndike's work, while in its infancy, was certainly drawing conclusions which supported her current thoughts as well. It seemed that Bartholomew's mother was a monstrous type of genius! Presuming that was what had happened.

"Bartholomew..." Mim asked at length, "Why did you fall ill with her displeasure?"

"I didn't..." Bart said in a drawn out fashion. "At least, not at the time. The family was invited to a noble's home, to sup with he and his family, in hopes of sealing a business deal. While it worked, I fell ill within a day of leaving. Sweating, chills, nausea, and as I said, panic."

"That's..." Mim screwed her face up in confusion, before blurting out in surprise, "Bad food?"

"According to the family doctor." Bart grimaced, "As two members of the noble's family fell similarly, though not as significantly, ill, it must have been."

"And..." Mim had so many thoughts running through her mind at that moment, she could not settle on one. So instead, she chose the most innocuous of his prior statements to settle on, to allow her time to think. "You said your second bout with love?"

"Yes." Bart smiled softly, "A beautiful servant of the household. A young Romanian woman named Catalena. She was also a practicing nurse, and studying to be a doctor. She had a great deal of knowledge of both modern medical sciences and folk cures, some of which, she knew, worked. She brought one to me, and used it to nurse me back to health."

Bart's face took on a troubled look. "She told me, in my mother's presence, that it was possible I and the younger children had been poisoned. The remedy she used, while useful for some small stomach ailments, was more commonly used as an anti-poison treatment. My mother, as might be expected, flew into rage, as did the noble, when she approached him with Lena's suspicions."

"I'm sure," Mim said with narrowed eyes, her tone suspicious, but Bart didn't seem to notice.

"The noble's home was some two day's train ride in summer, in the far south of Austria." Bart smirked quite wickedly, bringing a raised eyebrow from Mim. "It was winter, Miriam. She was forced to stay there for over a week and a half, aside from the time taken to and from." Miriam's eyebrows both shot up towards her hairline, and Bart chuckled. "I managed to, quite secretly, I must add, get to know Lena quite well. Quite well indeed..."

"The two of you became lovers?" Mim asked, her tone a mix of surprise and mirth at the idea of prim and proper Bartholomew Lipsky doing anything but holding hands with a woman he wasn't betrothed to. Of course, this caused other, racier thoughts to enter her head, ones which she quashed with but a minor dusting of redness coming to her cheeks.

"At first, but we quickly fell for each other," Bart admitted. "She claimed to be charmed by my intellect, and I by her humor, which was dry, but very entertaining. She also had such wonderous stories of her homeland..." Bart shrugged, continuing, "Suffice it to say, we kept the affair quiet for some year and a half. Until I joined the military."

"What happened then?" Mim asked, and Bart let out a low, bitter snort of laughter.

"Then, I met Miss Go, and she could see our relationship for what it was." Bart sighed, taking a long pull from his wine, finishing it. He was about to reach for more, when he noticed Mim holding the bottle, pouring herself a glass and holding the bottle out to offer him a refill. He accepted with a gracious smile, before settling back in his seat to continue. "Indeed, it was only her intervention that allowed Lena to move on. Mother had brought Miss Go home to introduce her to me and explain her presence. She was home some five hours early, and caught us... Rather, close to improperly engaged, at the time."

"You were not in bed with her, I would hope?" Mim asked, the barest hint of snark in her voice.

Bart did not seem to notice, and continued with a bashful smile, "No, we were merely kissing when we first heard her, yet we were still embraced when my mother and Miss Go walked in." Bart snickered at the memory. "My mother seemed shocked, and was about to raise her voice to us, when Miss Go noticed Lena's hands next to a mark on my neck. She made note of it and asked if this Lena was a nurse as well as a maid, or if she had to be on the look out for women such as her, and we managed to convince my mother that I had been challenged to a duel, but by someone of too low of status for me to respond to." Bart chuckled again, this time more naturally. "Luckily, my mother seemed not to know of the marks two lovers make in the throes of passion. We obviously thought it best to... End our relationship, much to our mutual disappointment."

"Somehow," Mim remarked with a slight snort of derision, "I can't help but think Miss Go knew what it was."

"She did, as she later told me," Bart admitted, "But she was also happy to serve as bodyguard to someone with, as she said, '...a willingness to be his own person...'" Bart noticed Mim's roll of the eyes, and added as if in afterthought, "As well, she is not so wanton as one would expect even with her smarmy attitude and dislike of current ideals. She has only had two lovers in the eight years I've known her, and each one she had for some time before they merely drifted apart."

"Were you ever one?" Mim prodded teasingly, and was rewarded by a deep, embarrassed blush.

"I offered myself to her once..." Bart admitted, swallowing slightly at the subtle shift of emotions in Mim's eyes that, while of visible intensity, were too fast to truly identify. "It was after resigning my commission, and I was quite deep into my cups, I must admit. She told me that I was her employer, that she rightly feared angering my mother if she followed through with it, and that I was too drunk to be an effective lover, anyway. And she knocked me quite unconscious!"

Mim managed to laugh at his declaration, shaking her head, "Not so unladylike as I'd thought. No wonder she got angry at Jon last year for calling her a trollop!"

"Oh, indeed," Bart said, taking a sip of his freshly refilled wine. "As I was explaining earlier, however... Ever since I was a child, my mother tried to convince me that denying her was why I would become sick with influenza, or the cold. After getting sick that night, my mother has made sure to remind me that I had denied her then, as well." Bart looked ashamed to admit it, "Like some people and their superstitions... I... Can't help but believe she might be right."

"You very well could be, for reasons other than superstition," his companion suggested mildly. Bart eyed her curiously, but chose not to pursue her train of thought. To be honest, he was likely not to hold up much longer with the scrutiny. It was far more taxing than he had thought it would be, not to mention the raw exposure that revealing his failings to his competent foe.

"So..." Mim said at length, mulling over Bart's various misfortunes. "Your mother is quite manipulative with your life. A pity..." Mim's conclusion was laced with a sincerity that made Bart's stomach tremble a little, "Such a pity..."

"At least I had my time with them." Bart said with a wistful sigh, and Mim shook her head, sharing in a similarly wistful smile.

"I must admit, Bartholomew," she allowed her a wry twist to accompany the smile on her lips, "That I believe my life with my Albert was not nearly so worthy of exposition..."

**MP MP MP MP  
**

**Author's Notes**

Aaaaaand cut! Interesting conversation, that was. Bart the woobie. Or would that be iron woobie, as he's pretty handy in a fight? Doesn't matter much, as either way Bart's life has been challenging, to say the least, much as he and Mim's conversation seems to have become. And it's only part of it! Still another chapter of discussion that we had to cut out to keep it a presentable length.

Like Jon, we certainly do not have such things as foresight and such suchness. Hindsight, however, is pretty powerful. Looking for problems in the plot and story is a tad tricky sometimes, but we prefer to root them out before presenting. Now that we seem to have fixed it up, it's time to start posting again.

Big hearty thanks to Alice Shade and Slipgate for taking a look at this and giving advice and nitpicking. It was really helpful!


	4. Chapter 4

**Authors' Forward**

Sorry for missing everyone's reviews last chapter.

Mengsk: thanks for the comparison to an accomplished author, we're quite flattered. We're also incredibly pleased that you found yourself lost in the little world we created, and do hope you end up readin' more of it.

eoraptor: thanks for takin' the time to read and comment!

mellissa Ivory: we're so glad you're enjoying the interplay between Bart and Mim, as well as picking up on some of the (probably less than) subtle clues we've been throwing, and that you seem to be enjoying this bit of insanity as much as you are!

Pharaoh Rutin Tutin: hmmm... Interesting take on imagining the story. And, yes, Bart does indeed have some issues with his dear mother... As for Mim and his mother ever meeting...? Only time will tell...

noncynic: we do try... And the best villains have backstory, whether it's all revealed or not, it's a must. And, whether she's a villain or just a woman of the times... As we said about Mim and Bart's mother meeting, only time will tell...

**MP MP MP MP**

Jon sighed as his mild jog deposited him outside of his destination with only a lightly hitching breath to tell of his efforts. He had been sure that there had been enough time to reach the restaurant where his companion would be waiting. There was no chance of him ever arriving before her; she seemed almost supernatural in her ability to travel from place to place.

He entered the familiar establishment and was immediately set upon by an impatient call, just within the realms of acceptable in such an establishment. "It's about time you got here, Stoppable!" Aglaya Go snipped at the short, thin looking blond.

"I was..." he started, pausing to savor the aromas permeating their agreed upon dining establishment, a small, fashionable café just off of the Avenue Montaigne. "Distracted, Aglaya. Sorry for being late."

Aglaya stared up at him from her seat, her eyes seeming to pierce into his very soul. After a moment, she glanced at the clock visible over his shoulder and noticed he was only a couple minutes late, and let it go. "I shouldn't be surprised," she snorted, "I have a feeling your dear friend, Mimmy, kept you."

"In a manner of speaking," Jon admitted as he sat down across from her, smiling and scratching just under the thick, but well kempt line of his a la Souvarov beard and mustache, "But not the manner _you're_ thinking!"

"Oh?" Aglaya raised an elegant eyebrow consideringly, lowering her voice somewhat, "So I suppose you were sharing each other's bodies, instead of discussing something important?"

Jon blinked once, then gave her a disarming smile. "Perhaps." Reaching out for the bottle of expensive, imported bourbon she'd ordered for them, he uncorked it and poured a healthy shot into the whisky glass on the table, "Then again... Maybe we just talked about the lovely Christmas weather this year?"

Aglaya looked at him sharply, then let out a single, harsh bark of laughter, "You're improving, Jon." She raised her as yet untouched glass of bourbon and gave him a jaunty, if slightly mocking salute, tossing back the entirety with nary a wince.

"I try, ma'am, I try..." Jon said, bowing slightly to the woman he could only consider a part-time nemesis to he and his best friend, Miriam Possible, before swallowing his bourbon as well. After a moment of savoring the mingled flavors and the slight bitterness that preceded the powerful liquor's burn, he sighed indulgently, "Ah! Y'know, this is one of the best things about spending truce time with you, Aglaya! You have good taste in drink!"

"It had best not be at the _top_ of said list..." Aglaya warned him, her tone as serious as her eyes.

"Oh, far from it!" Jon agreed amicably, "But it's at least in the top... Oh, five or so?"

"And what would be number..." Aglaya paused, to see if the blond would jump to conclusions on her. When he merely sat there, giving her his silly smile and awaiting her answer, her estimation of him rose slightly. _He acts the fool, and has proven himself the same on many occasions._ She thought, smiling a darker smile in return, _But a goodly amount of his buffoonery_ has _to be distraction!_ "Three."

"Three, huh?" Jon repeated back with a chuckle, putting a bit of thought into it. "I would have to say... Um... The more... Er, physical fun we've had, I guess?" He dropped his voice in a jokingly conspiratorial manner, "Though I hope you won't do like you did before! I can only take so much abuse."

"Then perhaps," Aglaya snipped at him, her tone indicating a complex mix of emotions, "You put yourself out too much, physically?"

Contrary to her apparent expectations, Jon just smiled. "And there's number four!" When she raised her eyebrow, he continued with a guileless expression, "Your wicked sense of humor!"

"You... Are a strange man, Jon," Aglaya murmured, a shrewd gaze on her face. "I'd rather like to avoid guessing at what you consider my best and second best qualities."

"Hmmm…" Jon's smile faded to a considering expression of his own, as he stared at her, making her stomach tingle in anticipation. "I'll admit that your intellect is second…" His gaze intensified somewhat, and he saw that she swallowed slightly, and barely hid a smirk as _she_ fell into _his_ trap, for once. "I'd have to say your rather haunting eyes are first on _that_ list."

Aglaya almost flinched, as if that were the last thing she'd expected. Then she began to blush, her winter pale face glowing with a slowly spreading blush. "M-my eyes?" she asked, and Jon could almost hear her cursing herself for such a reaction.

"Of course!" he smiled again, cocking his head slightly to the side, "You're really pretty, Aglaya. In body, in face and, dare I say..."

"Dare, dare," Aglaya cheered sarcastically into his pause, despite her quickly spreading blush.

"I must admit, in spirit, too, if someone manages to get past your biting tongue and sharp wit. It's like dueling someone with a rapier!" He straightened and leaned forward, settling his elbows onto his chair arms and his chin upon her clasped hands. "But honestly, your eyes are absolutely breathtaking."

"Why should I believe such a claim?" Jon, once again, barely resisted the urge to give her a wicked smirk as the woman swallowed nervously and poured herself another glass of bourbon. She was obviously trying to ignore the blush that had deepened and spread to her neck, going so far as to take a gentleman-like sip of her drink before turning her attention to her tablemate.

"I said that I was being honest, Aglaya!" Jon said softly, pouring himself a glass of the smooth, stout liquor, "But you'll believe what you'll believe, I guess. I know how it goes."

"Have the gentleman and lady decided upon a meal?" The nasal, rather pompous voice of their waiter startled Jon just as he took a sip of his bourbon. He was so startled that he choked slightly on the drink, barely restraining it from spouting from his mouth. The inadvertent action, and attempt to keep it from his mouth, blew some of the alcohol up into his nose. The waiter's pompous air dropped slightly in concern as the blond man's eyes watered, almost as if the drink was molten iron instead of fine Kentucky bourbon.

"I think we'll need some time to decide on a meal..." Aglaya barely suppressed a laugh, but the humor was obvious in her tone as she continued. "We'll start with some bread, fresh if you please, cheese... And sausages as well. We'll decide on our lunch afterwards."

"Very good, ma'am," the waiter said, favoring Jon with an apologetic look as the blond took a few long, slow sniffs through his nostrils to clear them, rather successfully attempting to keep up to the decorum of the eatery. "My apologies, sir."

"Don't worry about it, I obviously lived!" Jon laughed at his misfortune, and the waiter bowed and left. After another moment of clearing his sinuses, he favored Aglaya with a grin, which gave his pout with a surprising lack of vehemence, "That was pretty mean, laughing while I was choking."

"It serves you right, you clod!" Aglaya murmured, looking over the menu. "_I'm_ not the one to jump at a mouse skittering behind me, after all! And you're supposed to be a man... _I'm_ braver than you are, Mr. Screams-At-Little-Mice!" Jon held up his bourbon in mock salute, a mirror of her own false salute, and she continued with a grunt of annoyance. "And I still don't understand just... How we got where we are."

"Hmmm? Whatever do you mean?" Jon asked with honest curiosity, knowing she was agitated by the insults she was tossing at him. From previous conversations, he knew she was sensitive about being a lady, especially in her line of work, and took to the offense when she got upset or felt threatened. A knee-jerk reaction to the years of being challenged by men who thought she was a helpless damsel, he supposed. It never really made sense to Jon why people thought women couldn't do things as well as men - he'd seen first-hand that women were sometimes much, much more capable - but he knew that it really was a problem for women trying to break the mold. Sensing that teasing would just anger her, he left his question at that, giving Aglaya his full attention as she grumbled under her breath.

The waiter interrupted them just as Jon opened his mouth to speak into the growing silence, depositing a platter of fine looking and still warm bread, a variety of cheeses and sausages on the table. "Will there be anything else?"

"That should be fine for now!" Jon assured him jovially, and the man withdrew after giving them a small bow. Noticing Aglaya's now-tense posture, he decided to cut his country bumpkin speaking down a bit. It was helpful in breaking an awkward mood, dropping people's guard, and being all-around entertaining, but it would just be a hindrance until her agitation subsided. Jon tore off a hunk of bread and picked a nice, soft cheese, spreading it on the bread before addressing his tablemate, "You were saying?"

Aglaya nodded her thanks for waiting, even if her expression was a bit gruff. She grabbed some bread, as well as a bit of harder cheese and a sausage, before continuing. "Truth be told, I often wonder how I became interested in speaking with you, let alone doing... _Other_ things with you!" Her words came out in a huff of annoyance, and she shook her head in a mix of wonder and disgruntled frustration. "Your tendency towards the imbecilic would, under most circumstances, gall me to no end! Yet..." She sighed and set the menu, which she was beginning to fold dangerously close to tearing, down.

She gave him a look that told Jon to keep his mouth shut, which he wisely did. With a sigh, she continued, leaning her right elbow on the arm of her chair and pinching the bridge of her nose with that hand, "Yet, I find myself amused by it. Similar to watching an entertainer play the crowd. And then you perform an about-face that would make a politician proud, and make me blush like none of the other five lovers I've had in my life have!" Her blush returned with less intensity as she continued, "And you made me feel more... Wanted, than any of them, even though I can't help but think that we will probably never be more than what we are now."

"Be that as it may, Aglaya," Jon murmured, giving her a smile, "Shouldn't we enjoy the time we do spend together during these truces? Or even the other times when Mr. L. and Mim meet outside of our official truce times? I even enjoy meeting as opponents of occasion, so what about then? It is kind of fun when we fight; sometimes I even have a chance of winning!" His smile quirked at the corners of his mouth, as he fought his smile changing into a devilish smirk.

"Of course, if it bothers you so, we could dispense with it altogether and go to just speaking like Mim and Mr. L. do." She stared at him open mouthed, and he took a large nibble of his bread and cheese to hide his poor poker face. The chewing allowed him to smother his smirk into the same smile he'd worn a moment ago, but there was still a twinkle in his eye. "It is, of course, up to you."

After a moment of gaping and blinking at the man across from her, Aglaya snapped her mouth shut, and her eyes flashed in annoyance at him. "You had best not even _dare_ to suggest such a thing, Stoppable!" Her voice was barely restrained to a conversational level, and she again blushed a deep crimson when Jon could no longer hold back his humor and smiled, alerting her that he was obviously just teasing. She chewed at her own bread and cheese, which she had turned into something of a folded sandwich, before setting it down with an annoyed grunt. After swallowing, she crossed her arms over her chest, looking away from him and muttering quietly, "One would think, being the elder between us, you would not act so... So... _Childish_ at times!"

"I'm only twenty-eight, Aglaya, merely three and a half years older than you!" He paused, and realized he'd made half of her argument for her. Instead of backpedaling and making a bigger fool of himself, he shrugged with a chuckle, "So, I guess that could make me childish to some! Maybe... But I like to think of myself as relaxed and willing to be myself, as opposed to what society would demand of me!"

When Aglaya favored him with a confused quirk of her eyebrow, he elaborated upon his declaration, "What I mean is this: I support women's progressiveness as well as racial equality and even integration, and support both to a point some would call radical. I believe that a woman can do men's work - as well, and in some cases better - than men; take the commanding officer of the region for Pinkerton in Middleton, Natasha Director, as an example. Or Mim, or you, as Mr. L.'s bodyguard! And that doesn't even touch on the scientific endeavours of colored men such as our friend Wayne Load, or the Canadian that invented perhaps one of the best locomotive steam valves, McCoy!"

Aglaya nodded in understanding, and almost surprisingly to Jon, agreement, and he continued after taking a few breaths, "I guess there could be a simpler way of saying what I mean..." He said almost bashfully. Jon pondered for a moment, draining his bourbon and signaling their waiter as he walked by, "Coffee for the both of us if you could, my good man!"

"Of course, sir." The man bowed, and Jon turned his attention back to Aglaya.

"It helps me think." Jon's smile was still firmly in place, but there was a seriousness in his eyes. "As to what I mean... I guess... I'm not afraid of being different, progressive even, despite the fact that it may very well mean I take orders from a woman, or a colored or an aboriginal... Or that I'll allow a woman to choose who and how she loves someone, and not care if a white man is with someone that's not white themselves." He nodded, then shrugged after saying that, and Aglaya thought about his words for a long moment.

"Interesting..." she murmured, downing her own bourbon as the waiter returned, depositing two cups and a decanter filled with a light brown, 'French roasted' coffee on the table. She beat Jon in reaching for the coffee, and against her normal actions, poured them both a cup, before sitting back in her chair, cradling her cup in her hands. "And if you found out you were regularly pleasuring a woman that had redskin blood, it wouldn't bother you in the least?"

Jon blinked at her, cocking his head slightly to the right and shrugging, "Why should it? She's a woman, and if she were as fetching as you, so much the better!"

Aglaya blinked, and gave him a brief, hard glare. She looked, for all the world, to be pouting, and Jon barely kept from flinching when she reached forward across the table to feel his head, as if searching for a fever. After a moment, she withdrew her hand, staring at him in shock. "You mean that, don't you?" When he nodded, she shook her head, mumbling, "I'm half Irish from my father, a quarter Russian... And a quarter Cherokee."

"You are?" Jon said with an inordinately pleased expression. "Well, that certainly explains the temperament! I've known people from all three races, and I'll be frank, they can be scary. Especially the Irish!" Aglaya still watched him petulantly, as if expecting him to insult her background, so he added without thinking, "Doesn't change the facts that you're beautiful, and a delight to be around, even with your occasional bouts of anger. Heck, if I had problems with fits of anger from a lady, I wouldn't be following Mim around so much."

"Really..." the bodyguard huffed, staring as deeply into his eyes as she dared. When she saw no deceit, she accepted his words, relaxing slightly as her face softened to a vaguely fond expression. "Thank you," she said softly, and after a brief hesitation, asked, "So, essentially, you dare to be different?"

"I..." Jon paused, blinking, before his smile expanded into a toothy, happy grin. "That, Aglaya, is a brilliant way to explain how I feel!" She seemed surprised by his easy acceptance of what most would consider a slight. The bodyguard shook her head wonderingly at the man's thought process, much as Mim had earlier in the morning when she and Jon had conversed about the red-head's meetings with Bart.

"If you say so," she muttered, rolling her eyes, but smiling ever so slightly.

"I do indeed!" Jon enthused, lifting his cup up to her in salute, which she returned, the fine China cups clinking delicately as the rims touched. They both sipped, and the blond closed his eyes appreciatively. "Ah, this is so much better than the swill Barkin always made back at the offices in Middleton. I don't think I'll ever get that horrible taste out of my memory!"

"That overbearing ass that you carried around in a rickshaw?" Aglaya asked with some contempt in her tone.

"Overbearing is one way of describing him," Jon declared glibly, "But it was better I did it, being a... Er... Go between for the local constabulary and the Pinkertons, than some of the other poor members of the staff. After all, it was easy for me to pull him around, and he didn't talk to me much beyond various work related duties, because he thought me a lackwit in all other endeavors."

"You are surprisingly intelligent, when you actually think on what you say. And even more surprisingly, you're as strong as an ox, despite being so..." she seemed to be searching for a word to describe him, and Jon got the distinct impression she was looking for a less than hurtful word.

Instead of letting her struggle, he spoke up with a chuckle, "Short and scrawny?" Aglaya stared at him for a moment, and with a light flush of embarrassment, shrugged and nodded. "It's how Mim's late husband, Albert, used to describe me, so no worries."

"Late husband?" Aglaya asked, and then grimaced. There were established no-talk zones in their interactions. Asking about possibly hurtful pasts was one of them. "Sorry. I shouldn't pry..."

"It's alright." Jon smiled softly, lost in his memories. Albert had died a while ago, and Mim had managed to get through it. It wasn't something utterly unmentionable, such as Mim's dress size, so Jon decided to let it slide. "We were all the best of friends. Inseparable, until he joined the Army, and Mim followed. Even so, we all kept in touch until he died in the Boxer Rebellion, and Mim came back a few months later from the Philippines."

"She was in China _and_ the Philippines?" Aglaya boggled. "I wondered how she could be so... Steady, in drastic situations. Practice makes perfect?" She thought on it for a moment, and it was plain by the look on her face that her estimation of Mim had raised considerably. "Well, it is accurate, if blunt."

"Thanks for thinking to spare my feelings on the matter. But it doesn't trouble me, as I have ways of making up for it." Jon bowed at her, his smile open and honest enough to make her heart flutter and her cheeks light up, "And it seems your thoughts are going a different tack than mine."

"Hush," Aglaya urged him with a light snap to her tone, but the smile upon her lips gave lie to the pleasure she was feeling, "Or perhaps I might not share that with you tonight."

"Then, Lady Aglaya," Jon's smile didn't lessen, "We should switch to other conversational topics?"

"Of course." Aglaya smiled, thinking back on their earlier conversation. "Speaking of your age, when is your birthday...? It must be soon, if it hasn't already passed, as mine's in June!"

"Weeelllllllll..." Jon leaned forward, picking up the menu to peruse its contents himself, but his tone held a note of mischief that drew Aglaya forward in her seat in curiosity. "It's in four days..."

**MP MP MP MP**

"Ah, well, your brevity shall be quite alright, my dear Miriam!" Bart admitted in reference to his companion's warning of an unembellished description of her own past love. He smiled reassuringly to her, a light flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks."_You_ are a reporter, more concerned with facts and the barest usage of dramatic license, whereas _I_ have a tendency towards exposition, bombast... And can be a bit of a storyteller, as I just demonstrated."

"This is true, as well," Miriam nodded, her face slightly pensive as he considered how she wanted to reveal her relationship with Albert. With a shrug, she decided to jump to her earlier memories, much like Bart had. "I first met Albert when Jon and I were playing at his father's warehouse. I was seven and a half years old, and Jon almost eight and a half." She smiled at the memory, "We were playing at being Louis and Clark, when I literally ran into Albert headlong! He was nine at the time, and a rather unswaddled youth, used to such physical expression, so he laughed just as I did at the situation instead of cradling his injuries."

"A most auspicious beginning, I'm sure," Bart snickered, and Mim chuckled in agreement.

"Surprisingly so," Mim said. "You see, Albert's father was Jon's father's new partner in shipping. We all became fast friends, as did our families, despite the bloody nose we shared that day. Within a few months, Jon had jokingly said that one day he expected to see us married, and I said we would likely never court each other, let alone marry, since Albert could never beat me in a fight or wrestling match."

"It is obvious he won that, in one way or another, in the end?" Bart interjected, and Mim laughed brightly.

"Oh, yes, yes..." Mim withdrew a cigarette from its case, before lighting it, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling. "You see, despite our age differences the three of us - Albert due to problems with moving around, and Jon thanks to his regular distraction - happened to be in the same educational grade. And everyone, even our teacher, was convinced that Albert and I were an item. When I came to fancy a boy, Thomas Director..." She smiled slightly, "He ended up becoming a very close friend, I should mention, and his mother got Jon a job with the Pinkerton agency since she ran the Middleton office, and I am quite certain that their strange sort of business will be a family one..." Bart chuckled at the irony, and Mim's smile became indulgent, "But I digress. As I was saying, several members of the class heard about it and when they conspired to get Albert into a fight with him, I ended up stepping between them.

"My dear Albert was confused, nearly as much as Thomas and Jon were!" Mim shook her head. "It all got more confusing when one of the girls, my best friend, Isabella, said I was trying to break up with Albert. I did not react well to that, considering we were not together!"

"I'm sure." Bart spread his hands in a magnanimous fashion, earning a slightly miffed expression from Mim. "It sounds to have been quite the tense situation?"

"It got worse, however!" Mim countered. "One of the other boys, Thomas' little brother, an evil minded scamp of a boy named Melvin, said that Albert was bragging about my being his!" A quick moving, deep blush crawled from the crown of Mim's head to the middle of her neck, "And, not realizing who had said it, I... Erm... Punched Albert."

Bart, who had just successfully lit his pipe, choked on the smoke he held at the back of his throat, turning his laugh into a guffaw fueled series of coughs. After a moment, he managed to catch his breath, and took a long sip of wine before returning to his pipe, nodding for Mim to continue. "My apologies for my outburst."

"Thank you." Mim continued drolly, "As I was saying, I punched Albert. My Albert, dear fellow he was, had been raised not to raise a hand in anger at a woman, nor to take a beating from one, either, so while I was busy trying to waylay him, he was busy defending himself, and trying to get ahold of me to keep me from hurting him, myself, or the both of us." Mim snickered lightly. "Luckily for me, Father Grissom had been a missionary in China, and had taught me some rudiments of both the Chinese dialect and one of their fighting styles.

"So despite Albert being a much stronger sixteen year old to my wire-thin fourteen and a half, we were evenly matched." She laughed in a rueful fashion, "Most unfortunate for poor Thomas, who tried to step between myself and Albert. He had two black eyes and a broken nose for his troubles." She shrugged at Bart's raised eyebrow, "I was always quite strong for my age. As it happened, before long, the teacher was out and yelling at the boys who were fighting, and ended up staring in shock at Albert and myself!

"I had managed to bloody Albert's nose and lips, blacken an eye and leave a nice bruise on his cheek. And while I was unharmed, I was quite disheveled. I was also quite handily captured by Albert; he had me in a bear hug, tickling me, and was not going to let go until I yelled uncle and promised to listen to him."

"Did he get that surrender from you?" Bart asked, and Mim nodded, a rueful smirk on her face.

"To save the embarrassment of giggling like an institutionalized idiot? Of course," Mim admitted. "And... He explained that he had never said something like that... And that's when we heard another fight taking place." She winced slightly at the memory. "Thomas was beating his little brother for saying the words that started my fracas with Albert. Not a friendly, roughhousing beating between siblings, either. Thomas was more enraged than I ever remember seeing him. I had not realized just how much he cared for our friendship, and mine and Albert's relationship, whatever it may have been."

"Things ended up calming down, it seems?" Bart smirked as Mim again flushed in embarrassment.

"Our mothers, Albert and mine, were called in and we had to explain everything to them." Mim's blush intensified more, and Bart felt a moment of concern for her health when the flush spread below her neckline. "My mother had the temerity to point out that I had once said I would court Albert if he ever beat me in a fight." She sighed before chuckling lightly with her next words, "She suggested we try, and promised to keep it from my father, since he could be... Overprotective, to say the least. But... We tried it, and became rather close, rather quickly. A half a year later, I was beginning to feel the strain, as we had not told my father, and when I finally convinced Albert to talk about it..."

Mim grimaced in fond annoyance, then smiled again. "The fool man told me we had not had to worry for three months, as he had asked my father permission to court me then! And not long after, he asked for my hand." Mim's smile took on a fragile cast as she continued, "We married before I went to college, which was rather unfortunate... For our neighbors next to the small room we rented. We were quite passionate in our love for each other." Bart raised an eyebrow at such an easy admission, but Mim didn't falter in the slightest. "Soon after I graduated, he went into the Army. I was quickly hired on by the Middleton Daily. For some daft reason, they awarded me with the newfangled title of traveling journalist, and requested I send regular reports back on the sights I saw while with my Albert."

"That must have been an interesting experiment for the paper," Bart commented, earning a nod and a grin from Mim.

"It was, and quite successful, I must add." Mim's tone was prim and proper, but the smirk she wore was triumphant. "Albert was quickly promoted, and was an officer within a scant few months. We spent some time in forts in the United States, before Albert was offered a promotion to Captain, and with it a position in China, the latter due to family connections. He was able to bring me with him, and we were there a few months. Then came the Boxer Rebellion...

"You were correct last year, Bartholomew." Mim continued with a slightly strained voice. "My husband was an officer, and well respected. You also mentioned your cousin Edward. Was he _Hauptmann_ Edward Adler, by chance?" At Bart's startled nod, Mim sighed slightly, "He and Albert were good friends. They often shared time off together, and had a fondness for cards and good Bavarian spirits. Edward also tended to comment on the 'affluent figures' of the women present, but never took it beyond easily brushed off comments. Curiously, his wife tended to join in on occasion..."

"Yes, that would have been Edward and Hannah!" Bart chuckled, "And I am sure had the boys been single, they would have shared the same taste in women."

"Indeed," Mim agreed with a roll of her eyes and a snort of amusement, "Edward's wife was a lovely woman, and a dear friend at the time. But I had not thought that the Edward I knew was your cousin, until a realization I had about it this summer. He had a strong resemblance to you, as far as the chin, brow and nose went." Bart nodded. "Strange sometimes how the tangled web of fate is woven... Anyway, it was your cousin that managed to take myself, his wife and children, a few other journalists and diplomats' families to safety. I sent my reports off via another ship headed home, as the ship I was placed on took us to the Philippines. I had hoped to await Albert there, but..."

A drawn out exhale of grief was all that passed Mim's lips, before she continued, "I received word weeks later that he was dead. I at least got to see his body before it was delivered home, as the same ship was also taking bodies from the Philippines home. In the meantime, I began reporting on events in the Philippines," her voice took on a disgusted tone, "The so-called Philippine-American war! Pah!"

If Bart was surprised by her turning her head aside and making the motions of spitting, he didn't show it. "Of course, the Daily asking me to stay there may have been somewhat of a mistake for a few closely placed investors. They were in support for the war, and our place in it. I reported, honestly, as to what happened there."

"That could not have made you any friends..." Bart murmured, and was surprised when Mim laughed.

"Among the investors? Hardly." She lifted a finger, "But among the more enlightened in Middleton and elsewhere? I was merely among the first to report the truth. And many more, and more respected followed soon after." She dropped her finger, grabbed a cigarette and lit it, before continuing with a cloud of bluish smoke emanating from her mouth, "I had friends among the community, and the most recent, and largest, investor was my friend Isabella Rockwaller. She was the only survivor of her parent's and brother's death in a horrid railway accident. She was just savvy enough to retain their estate from her less... Savory family members, thanks to a strongly worded will, and an effective and inexpensive lawyer. Not to mention, she had the ears and..." a flush came to Mim's cheeks "...other parts of many, many influential men in and around Middleton and even Upperton."

"Wait a moment. Rockwaller... I remember you mentioning this name before," Bart grunted in frustration as his excellent memory failed him.

"Likely a passing comment." Miriam sighed as she thought on her longtime friend. "While we are friends, I find her occupation to be personally distasteful." Noticing his eyebrow raising, she continued, "Having sex out of one's own desires is one thing, but to sell your body? I doubt I will ever be able to come to terms with her... Work." A wicked twist in her lips punctuated the next line. "Though I imagine she quite enjoys what she does, considering the rumors I heard about her and her late fiancé's nightly activities. She took over her business from one of our mutual friends back in '97, and joined in the business proper not long after her fiancé was taken from her with a dreadful influenza outbreak back in ninety-nine."

Bart stayed quiet as he felt there was more coming, but couldn't help but think that Mim would make a bedevilingly evil villainess with the smirk she wore. "She runs a brothel in Middleton, though she claims its a therapeutic retreat, where men, and in some cases women, may release their... Pressures, if you will." Mim shrugged, her face becoming slightly more neutral. "It is barely legal, and I am sure her fiancé, a lawyer by trade, had much to do with finding the loopholes needed while he was alive, but I digress." She took another drag from her cigarette before continuing, "When she got wind that I was to be fired, she pulled out all the stops to keep me in place. She managed to help me keep my job, but I was reduced, as you noticed, to local events of import, and who and what is in fashion; which I made sure to report with the fullest of integrity, of course!"

"I see..." Bart smirked himself now, nearly laughing at the mention of Miriam in charge of articles on what, not to mention _who_, was in fashion. "That is almost evil, my dear!"

"I am sure I have no idea what you mean." Mim said primly, before sighing, her face darkening, "But... That was not the worst. I dare say I was lucky that I left as soon as I received my recall letter. I had a few friends among the troops, and they caught up to me as I was leaving the villa I had been staying at. Some of their fellows had heard of my reporting, and being the only female reporter, they felt it their _manly_ duties to teach me proper respect for their authority."

"They did not...!" Bart growled and his gaze became heated, his body tensing in indignation. Mim shook her head, and while his body relaxed, his eyes were still wide in shock. "What kind of soldier would even _think_-..."

"Worry not, Bartholomew," the reporter interrupted with a warm smile at his concern. "As I said, I did have friends. They ensconced me safely upon a passenger ship bound for San Francisco after I sorted out the first group to confront me, and I got back to Middleton, hale and healthy, for the most part." She sighed, "Aside from a particularly vicious, if rare for me, case of sniffles."

Pausing at the end of the tale of her and Albert, Miriam felt a twinge of surprise as she realized that she felt lighter than she had in a while. The weight of her loss was lifted a bit more than she'd expected with sharing her story. The most surprising thing she felt was the ease in which she had told Bart of Albert. She had been completely incapable of telling Jon more than vague hints of her inner agony, and yet she found it easy, even easier than she would have thought ultimately telling Jon would feel. It very well could have been the fact that Bart had his own pain to bear that he had freely shared with her.

Suddenly, she felt the need to be frank as she noted her expressions must have played across her face with how Bart was looking at her. Mim gave a small smile and candidly confessed, "Honestly, I have only over the last two and a half years of chasing you become able to dwell much on Albert without crushing heartbreak."

"How is that?" Bart asked with heartfelt sincerity, and Mim gave him that deceptively charming yet villainous smirk once again.

"Honestly, some of it is in the caring of my nemesis." She half bowed to him, then raised her wine in a jaunty salute. "But the rest... From the caring of a true friend. Jon and I are... Lovers of occasion, you might say, as we both have stresses that need release." She shrugged when Bart's eyes widened, and found herself unaccountably happy that she saw no condemnation in his eyes, merely surprise. "I am a progressive woman, in many manners. And..." She swallowed to hold back her feeling of loss as she admitted, "As I am a barren woman, at least we do not have to worry about children."

"I..." Bart said, before taking a sip of his wine and continuing with a bashful, apologetic smile, "I see. Yes, you seem so. I do not begrudge you your needs, as many others would, I am quite certain."

"Thank you, Bartholomew," Mim said warmly, saluting him again with her wine, "For not thinking less of me for being myself... Nor for my outspokenness."

"Think nothing of it, my dear." Bart gazed at her, unable to speak for several moments before coughing lightly. "Your past with your husband was fascinating, even in its brevity. And what you did in the Philippines? It was incredibly courageous of you. Foolish, based on the reaction of the investors, and their orders to your editor, but courageous." He held up his wine in salute, suddenly feeling self-conscious for a brief moment as he noted they'd saluted enough to make one wonder if they were in the military, before shaking it off and saying, "And truly worthy of the gentlewoman I have come to know."

"It was not courage," Mim said softly as she fought a blush at the praising tone in his voice. She sipped at her wine to give herself time to regain her composure, and continued in a low voice, scarcely more than a whisper, "It was merely the right thing to do. Something my Albert would have wanted me to do."

Mim exhaled heavily and took a long drag on her cigarette, which was nearly to its end. She examined it with a wry pursing of her lips. "Honestly, Bartholomew, had he not died so soon during the legation siege, he would have protested the actions of the colonial militaries most powerfully! And had he been in the Philippines..." She crushed the last of her cigarette's still glowing cherry out in the ashtray to emphasize her point, "I would have lost him to the hangman's noose for mutiny during wartime."

Bartholomew blinked, a regretful smile upon his face, "I wish, stridently, that I could have met your husband, Miriam. As I mentioned in the past, the... Excesses of empires are the reason I resigned from my position in the army. And the reason for my scar, truth be told."

"Truly?" Mim prodded, cocking her head.

"Indeed." Bart clasped his hands together, his index fingers extended as he tapped them to his lips for a moment. Should he bother with telling her the story? He had already taken the lion's share of the discussion, and did not wish to take even more of what should have been her time to talk. With a minute shrug, he decided it would be interesting to see Miriam's reaction to what had happened. If she truly cared on time, she would interrupt him. "I was, ironically as it may seem, a captain when I was first sent to German South-West Africa. We were sent to reinforce the peacekeeping force around the capital, Windhoek, to keep any possibility of revolution quelled and, to quote, '...spread the Kaiser's power and guarantee the primacy of Germany in the African colonial expanse!', unquote."

He grabbed a knife and reached out, spearing a chunk of cheese before bringing it to his mouth to nibble on it for a moment. After he finished the nibble, he frowned. "It was not a terribly onerous duty, at first. The area I and my company was assigned to was a wealthy section of the capital, easily kept in order! Yet... Being there is what lead to me being promoted to major, given command of a short battalion of mixed cavalry and infantry, with orders to do everything needed to find and capture the leader of The Namib Ghosts."

"_You_ were chasing The Silent Hyena?" Mim blurted in shock. "You were the leader of the troupe that caught him?"

"Yes," Bart answered with mild surprise. He paused, glancing at Mim and then down at the plate of cheese between them, contemplating something. Taking a breath, he continued, his tone somewhat subdued, "I and my men caught the Hyena, _eventually_." Bart let out a disgusted snort, shaking his head with a brief flash of heartfelt sadness. He allowed a light, reminiscent smirk to curl his lip, "But... For the first month after receiving my orders, I rather angered my commanders, truth be told.

"I insisted on training the _Jäger's_ in cavalry operations and riding, to make them more easily integrated into my command. I also helped redesign some of the bulkier telegraph machines so our signalmen could easily carry them on horseback, as well as making sure their fighting capabilities were up to proper standards." His smirk faded to a rueful smile. "Of course, had one of my better men suffered with less keen eyesight than the norm, especially at night, none of it would have been necessary. And we would not have had a chance at our eventual success."

"How did your man's eyesight cause..." Mim gestured vaguely, holding her wine loosely in her grasp, "All of that? I read reports of you and your men's exploits, Bartholomew, but the details? They were, to say the least, rather scarce."

"I see..." he murmured softly before nibbling at a bit more cheese. His face became pensive when he continued, "I see indeed, and I am heartened that the details were as scarce as they were, since if you could not find them when looking..." He paused and fixed her with a serious stare. "I must ask, my dear, that those details stay as scarce after we talk." He raised a finger before Mim could speak, either in protest or agreement, "Do understand, Miriam, that this is for the protection of my men, and others, innocents many of them, whose very lives would be forfeit should those details become widely known."

Mim gave him a level stare, searching his eyes for any sign of deceit. Seeing none, she nodded. "On everything I hold dear, Bartholomew." she murmured in a quiet, sincere tone.

"Thank you," Bart replied lowly after taking a sip of his wine. "As I was saying... The trooper was named Friedrich Protz, and was very young, barely old enough to be in the army. But despite the hell his eyesight sent us all through, I was glad to have him, for I fear things would have been much, much worse without him."

"How so?" Mim asked, confused by the seeming change of topic. Even so, she was quickly becoming enthralled almost despite herself and his warning of the import of his story. As she had informed Bart, she had indeed heard of the chase after the Silent Hyena, and read reports of the dashing troops that had gone after him, but had never managed to discover the identity of the men who had captured him. Considering Bart's contacts and ability to keep things related to himself quiet, she had felt a strange lack of surprise when he began his tale.

"Friedrich had spotted an aboriginal dressed in dark clothing slinking through the night." Bart's tone was somewhat distant, as if trying to capture some nuance in his memory and portray it to Mim. "He was heading in the direction of the barracks, and we immediately gave chase, managing to corner him perhaps a two dozen meters from his target. Had he succeeded, it would have opened a full scale war, and the damnably pompous, wrong headed imbeciles back home would have sent all hell into the area, which would have been worse than what still happens there." Bart grimaced in disgust, before returning to his topic. "The aboriginal was a boy younger than Friedrich... And armed with several sticks of dynamite bundled together and a hooded oil lantern.

"Friedrich managed to tackle the boy before he could light the fuses." Bart allowed a smile of pride. "He was, I dare say, better at wrestling than I was, even at his young age, and I tried my best to expand his combat knowledge. He had the makings of a general, I swear." Bart's proud reminiscence faded, and his face took on a troubled scowl. "The boy we captured... He begged for his family's life, saying that some of the Hyena's men had threatened his family.

"When we discovered this, we let the boy go, and I sent a company runner with a letter to a few..." the corners of Barts lips quirked as he shot her a quick glance out of the corner of his eyes before settling back to the cheese on his knife, "Less than savory acquaintances I had come to know, even then. They made sure his family was safe, and I made sure that it was known what the Hyena's men had done, and who among his men had done it."

"Was that safe for the boy or his extended family?" Mim asked, mildly shocked.

"As my acquaintances assured me at the time, the Hyena had all the trappings of a gentleman." Bart's scowl lessened, and he nibbled at his cheese a bit more. "Those trappings seemed true to the reputation. The men that had threatened the boy were found the next morning in front of the family's home... Disemboweled and beheaded."

"Fitting..." Mim drew out the word, a mixture of distaste, but understanding and even a touch of agreement in her eyes. "So, as some reports I heard about the Hyena said, he was a man of honor."

"Not just of honor," Bart disagreed with a startling passion, despite the iron control he forced upon his voice to keep their conversation just between them. "The Hyena was honorable, yes, but noble, valiant and chivalrous to an extent to make the knights of old blush with inadequacy!" It was Bart's turn to turn aside and mimic spitting in distaste. "A leader, a _soldier_, far beyond many of the officers and men that served in that God-forsaken colonial expanse! I can only hope that some day I shall be as great as the Hyena was, in both honor and spirit."

Mim stared at Bart for several long seconds as he popped the rest of the cheese into his mouth and chewed with angry vigor. The sight was amusing, and while a slight smile played at the very edges of her lips, she held it at bay, knowing the man was trying to calm his anger and that her amusement would only stoke it further. As the chewing slowed in pace and lessened in vigor, Mim gently forwarded a theory she had formed. "Am I to understand, then, that you and he became, essentially, gentleman rivals of sorts?"

Bart swallowed and grabbed his wine, taking a healthy sip to wash down the cheese before finally nodding. "Less of sorts and more in fact, Miriam." He leaned back and gazed at her. "The Hyena was, to put it less than delicately, a horrible opponent for a man to have, and, possibly, one of the best. The things that strategic genius could do were amazing! I witnessed the Hyena rout a full battalion of cavalry and infantry with merely two hundred men and their horses as well as a dozen camels while, at the _same time_, evacuating a village of nearly one thousand under the cover of a sudden rainstorm. My men had them cornered on several occasions, yet-..."

"Six, as I recall?" Mim asked, an affably smug grin on her face.

"Six open confrontations..." Bart drew out and paused, waiting for Mim to nod at him to continue. "But in truth, there were a total of eleven times in which the Namib Ghosts were cornered, yet got away." He countered with a light, almost delighted laugh, staring her straight in the eye, "_If_ you include times wherein weather, accidental night time skirmishes, and the like allowed an avenue of escape." Mim found herself joining in Bart's laughter, amazed that this prideful man could so easily admit to being confounded. "But I cannot fault my men, nor can I laud the Hyena - beyond using fortune so astutely - for those other times."

Bart's face became troubled and he whispered, "Would that I knew then what I do now..." He shook his head to clear his thoughts before continuing with his tale. "My men and I ran from one side of German South-West Africa to the other, from the Kalahari in the east to the Namib Desert on the coast, from the Cape Colonial borderlands in the south to Ovamboland in the north, and several times beyond the borders. All this time, I fought to instill within my men the concepts of honor, of chivalry, of _esprit de corps_ and respect for one's self, and more importantly, one's enemies.

"And yet... All around us..." his eyes became unfocused, staring not at Mim but _through_ her, his voice rising slightly with the forlorn tone that of a man who had suffered the pain of blindness despite perfect vision, "All around us was Hell. What the Imperial Army was doing, forcing upon the aboriginals, was... Horrifying. Simply and wholly _disgusting_ beyond anything words could ever express! We were men of honor and courage, heroes of the Empire, yet our fellows committed atrocity after atrocity while we knight-errants roamed the countryside in search of the Hyena. Our hopes of capturing their great leader, all to crush any and all opposition to the Fatherland... And all for naught!"

Bart's last word was spat as a horrid curse, the vitriol within those words stinging Mim even though she knew they were not directed at her. "Hundreds upon thousands of men, women - and worse - _children_! Eldest to infants, healthiest to the most infirm... It mattered not, Miriam! They were killed, slaughtered, _destroyed_ like _worthless_ chattel for merely living but not bowing before the boot of our _precious_ aristocracy and their desires!"

"Even so," Mim ventured hesitantly, hoping to draw him further out of his shell and wanting to cool his anger by returning to the story, "You eventually did capture him."

"Yes," Bart said, his voice again a whisper, his gaze becoming unfocused as he thought back to that final week. "Yes, we did. The Hyena, and the Namib Ghosts, of course, had decided to run for the border again. I saw a possibility to capture them, at their weakest... But _only_ if I could make an end run to get ahead of them, and ambush them at a small, abandoned mining town in the northeast of the colonial lands. We managed to separate the command element from the rest of the Hyena's men, and they sued for surrender." He looked vaguely sick for a long moment, and Mim felt a horrible sinking sensation in her stomach, one which she hadn't felt for years, since Albert had been part of a fort in Montana. "I agreed, much to my regret, due to betrayal from one of my officers and a general back at the capitol."

"I..." Miriam paused, uncertain if she should interrupt, but feeling like she should. "I have experienced this before, however indirectly." His doubtful gaze did not bother her, as she was sure that if she had been in his position she would react the same. "My Albert had managed to corner a small band of Sioux, survivors of the Battle of the Little Big Horn in southeast Montana. They surrendered to him, and his troupe had orders to detain them, for shipment to the Sioux reservation in South Dakota.

"The colonel sent him and a few men that were like minded to Albert back to the fort with word of their success." Mim grimaced in distaste, "When the colonel and the rest of the men got back... They were without the band, which they claimed tried to attack them in order to escape... And yet they were heavy with trophies..."

"I see..." Bart murmured, his eyes temporarily focused upon Mim.

"I am certain you do," Mim retorted. "Albert had been dismissed from the weekend's duties as being the leader of the platoon to corner them, and we were happy to see each other. When the colonel returned as he did, my Albert was all fired up, and dressing before I realized why he was angered. I stopped him, telling him it would waste both of our lives, as he knew I'd be right beside him if he confronted them!"

Mim sighed and took a sip of wine, "And I would not have hesitated in the least to give the colonel a piece of my mind if Albert had left our room that day." She stared at Bart, and nodded, "So I do understand, indirectly, as I said."

Bart nodded and stared off, surprised by the little ironies of life. He stayed like that for several long seconds, staring at his own past. After observing that far off, yet seemingly immediate, time, Bart's eyes refocused on Mim's concerned eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment and both saw something truly startling within the eyes of the other: understanding, compassion and the desire to share in the other's pain, to lessen it. Then, almost as if choreographed, they blinked and glanced away from each other. The emotions they saw were too raw for true, full comprehension, and too disconcerting.

"Bartholomew..." Mim swallowed the rest of her wine quickly, before looking back to the table and shakily refilling her glass, "It seems obvious you were betrayed, but... What... What happened, exactly?"

"What happened, exactly, Miriam?" Bart's voice was cold and hard, like a tempered hammerhead used as a weapon, instead of a tool. "What happened was _slaughter_! As I mentioned, I was betrayed... My second in command, Captain Becker..." Bart's lips twisted into a sneer of pure loathing, "He had a platoon of men, hardened fighters skilled at stealth and subterfuge, following us during this last leg of the chase. They had been sent along with orders to Captain Becker from one of the so-called heroic generals!" Bart's sneer, if anything, became more pronounced.

"His orders were that, if I were to find myself in control of the Hyena, he was to make sure that the Hyena _never_ stood trial, nor any of the Hyena's command staff!" Mim gasped softly, blinking and shaking her head in shock. "Knowing where we would be going, they had somehow gotten ahead of us and in place within the town. Captain Becker, under the guise of taking my orders to what men had made it into the town, left my command group; instead, he sent a runner with my orders to the rest of my men, and personally took command of the hidden platoon and lead them against the Hyena. The treacherous _swine_!"

His last few words had been spat with such vehemence that the sneering expression on his face was utterly alien to Mim. She had seen him sneer at her, at Jon, at the world in general, but this was different; this held not the sting of contempt, but a malicious visage of hatred and murderous intent. She resisted the urge to hold her hand out and place it comfortingly upon his, which was rock steady as it held his wine despite the power of his emotions.

"I and my command element were making our way through the town, towards the town's inn." Bart slowly raised his glass to his lips, taking a slow, contemplative sip before continuing, "We heard the Maxim guns of Captain Becker's secret platoon opening fire and hurried forward, and what we found..." He shuddered slightly in disgust, "Bodies of men we had fought running battles with across and beyond the expanse of German South-West Africa were littered about like driftwood. The structure they had taken refuge in, a well built, sturdy building indeed, was beyond merely pockmarked with bullet holes; it was nearly destroyed!" He gave a wry twist of his lips that bore no relation whatsoever with a smile, "And over three quarters of the Hyena's command staff were dead."

"Why was that such a surprise?" Miriam asked breathlessly.

"Because my orders were to take the Hyena, and as many of the Hyena's men as I could alive," Bart hissed. "The politicians back home, to the best of my knowledge, had not wanted a martyr, but a prisoner! By capturing the Hyena, and imprisoning such a leader, a few, the decidedly more intelligent ones, had hoped to cow the sheep. Obviously, by the time I got there and having heard what happened without my order, I was furious! Especially when Captain Becker presented the Hyena to me."

Miriam flinched ever so slightly and her body tensed as he leveled a fierce look at her. "The reason as to what happened there was kept secret, Miriam, was due in part to my actions, but mostly because the Hyena... Was a woman."

Her astonished gape nearly broke Bart's somber, vexed mood. It was almost refreshing, to completely rob Miriam of her ability to speak, and the pure glee he was able to take from it made it more than worthwhile to have told her the story. He would most certainly enjoy this memory, as opposed to his other, damnably fresh-feeling ones.

Bart blinked and turned his gaze to the table as his eye began to twitch intensely, spearing another chunk of cheese, biting off half of it as he collected his thoughts. Miriam relaxed as his gaze cooled and the tick slowed, sipping her wine as he continued, "I was raised by my father to _respect_ women. In _whatever_ they do, much to my mother's chagrin it. When I heard Captain Becker's triumphant crowing at the identity of the Hyena, and saw the breathtakingly beautiful aboriginal woman being dragged about by a noose around her neck, and the... The despicable acts the Captain was offering his men... His _monsters_... To attempt to _break_ her..."

"What?" Mim gasped, her eyes opening wide in a mix of shock and rage.

"Yes..." Bart's malicious sneer was back in full force, "He had not even the respect his own _leutnant_, _Leutnant_ Schwenke, had for the aboriginal soldiers. I ordered him to halt what he was doing and give me an explanation as to why he disobeyed my and the general staff's orders to take them alive. He reached into his satchel and produced orders that seemed to counter mine. The orders read, in part, that Captain Becker was '...to hang the Hyena and any surviving men with all haste, as a lesson to the subhuman waste that are the aboriginal inhabitants of the Namib Desert...' I am to this day not entirely certain how, but I ended up challenging him to a duel '...until one opponent may not be able to proceed or death...' I hazard I was angered by his treatment of such a noble opponent!"

"I would be forced to agree," Mim murmured, watching Bart closely.

"It was most troubling, to say the least," Bart continued, "And I still thank God from time to time that Friedrich, by then a _Stabsfeldwebel_, er, first sergeant, I believe the Americans call them?" At Mim's nod he continued, "He acted as my second, and one of Captain Becker's new_ leutnant's_ acted as his. That he so easily snubbed _Leutnant_ Schwenke showed what he was promised for his _betrayal_."

"Why would choosing another man as his second be snubbing the lieutenant?" Mim asked, unprepared for the answer.

"My dear Miriam," Bart's tone was, suddenly, almost jovial, despite the darkness that remained at the edge of his voice and deep within his eyes, "The German military, and, I am sure, other military forces, are indifferent to men loving men in their ranks, so long as they present a proper, decorous face to the world."

"So they were lovers," Miriam concluded, earning a troubled nod from Bart.

"Yes." Bart was surprised that Mim hadn't reacted strongly, but merely accepted it as a matter of course. With a minute shrug, he continued, his voice still afflicted, "Not that I was bothered, quite the opposite! Before this... Event, both Captain Becker and _Leutnant_ Schwenke were among my best officers. What they did in private is as much business of mine or anyone else as what a married couple do in their privacy. But it was troubling to me, as I was going to duel across swords with his lover, and he was supporting me, however uninvolved in the duel he was.

"But it kept the Hyena alive for a time longer, as I kept her close to my person, and kept her dignity unspoiled by those among the platoon the captain had brought along." Bart sighed and glanced at the knife in his hand, as if he'd forgotten about it altogether. Taking a nibble of the remaining crumbs of cheese, he continued, "About an hour later, we were in a stable, our seconds the only ones with us aside from the Hyena, who was in irons and chained to a stable support. The fight was brief, merely ten minutes. The first few minutes we traded attempts at a cut, mostly feeling each other out, until he struck me on the left arm. It was glancing, but bled nonetheless.

"I managed a minute later to catch him across the face, below his right eye to his cheek, and when he flinched away, from his cheek to the angle of his jaw." Bart held up the knife with the cheese on it as if it were one of his fingers. "That could very well have been a fatal mistake for me, despite how grievous the wound was." He lowered his knife and continued thoughtfully, "Despite fighting forty duels in his life, Becker's rather handsome face was unblemished because, like me, he was not in a _Studentenverbindungen_, um... Student corporation." Mim nodded in understanding, and Bart flushed slightly, having forgotten she knew German with some degree of fluency, "My apologies. As I was saying, his _Studentenverbindungen_ was not one that supported the practice of mensur, so his face was unblemished. And so, when I cut him, he became enraged, and produced his pistol from his belt to fire upon me."

"He fired a pistol in a sword duel?" Mim was disturbed and, if she were honest, angered by this. While she found dueling detestable and the soldier had already proven himself to be unscrupulous, the fact that the man had the personal dishonor to do such a thing was appalling!

"Yes," Bart nodded. "I managed to duck out of his line of fire, although it did tear off my left epaulette. As it stands, I was not left unharmed." He brushed a finger absently along his scar. "His pistol jammed, and he was forced to follow the shot up with a sword stroke to my face as I recovered from the dodge. The tip of his blade caught me below the eye, and cut to the bone. It was sheer luck that I continued my fall instead of stopped it, as it took me away from the stroke to my right, and his sword's tip missed my eye!" Bart chuckled mirthlessly, "I used his distraction with the jammed pistol and his missed strike, and drove my sword through his heart. His second produced his pistol in an attempt to kill me, but Friedrich drew upon him."

He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, though his gaze was unfocused, "And this is yet another reason why so much of what happened has been shrouded in mystery and misdirection, my dear. We stood in stalemate while the man threatened us. He claimed that, were I to, in any way, interfere with their will, I would be considered a threat to the empire and would have a death sentence hanging over my head. And, while he spat his proclamations at us and kept his attention focused, he was set upon by Miss Go."

"But if it was only you four and the Hyena..." Mim said, nodding in wonder at the woman's sneakiness.

"Yes," Bart confirmed, "She'd somehow slipped into the stable undetected." He shrugged, "Probably much easier in her field clothing than the normal dresses she favors in cities and such." He smiled briefly, and Mim nodded in vaguely amused agreement before his face fell into a troubled cast once again. "When his pistol wavered somewhat away from myself, Freidrich, and the Hyena, she fell upon him. She slipped a finger behind his pistol's trigger and a thumb over the hammer to keep it from firing... And snapped his neck in a clean, efficient move."

Mim blinked in amazement. She had known Miss Go to be a capable fighter, but not realizing just _how_ capable. Bart nodded as if he had been surprised as well, before continuing in a pleased, yet perturbed voice. "Some of my men had snuck close after the first shot and the shouting that followed, and came in after Miss Go killed Becker's second. One of them ran from the stable, calling for the doctor for me, implying I was the one injured or dead, and passed orders on to take the platoon by surprise.

"Unfortunately, the platoon was on heightened alert, and it turned into a slaughter of all of them." Bart's smile was an ugly thing to see, the pure perversity of his pleasure making the redhead nauseous, though she understood his feelings. He leaned forward and conspiratorially whispered, "Within a minute of my victory, they were dead, taking with them, thankfully, only a few of my men. More importantly, they took the secret of the orders they had been given with them to the grave. My men, all of them that remained, swore an oath to say they had been killed by the aboriginals."

Bart sighed, his smile dropping into an almost natural thing, to Mim's relief. "The Hyena and I came to an agreement of sorts. Her second, who had miraculously lived, volunteered to take her place and go back as the Hyena, and she would let it be known to those that needed to that she was not to be mentioned as the Hyena. In return, I gave her the names of a few men that could help her join the Union, and she and the rest of her men would leave German South-West Africa until such time as Germany gave up claim on the land, or were chased out by war."

Bart glanced back at his scraps of cheese for several seconds and finished the little bit remaining on the knife point. He glanced over at Mim as she finished lighting a cigarette, and chuckled mirthlessly. "The irony was that this all showed me how ruthless and, frankly, disgustingly heartless Imperial Germany, and imperialism in general, had become when my superiors were trying to prove the opposite! Myself and my men felt it improper to carry on fighting for a side which so very clearly should not win, so most of us decided to leave, honorably or not. My most trusted men were all in on my plan, and all of us retired but for two officers and three enlisted: _Leutnant_ Schwenke, Captain Müller, my third in command, Friedrich, and two of the signalmen. Those that remained were there to help keep retribution off of those of us that were retiring."

"It seems to have worked," Mim prodded after a long moment, and Bart nodded, "And I mean no offense, but it seems you left many things out of this, Bartholomew."

"Indeed, my dear..." Bart didn't seem the least bit offended, nor realize the implied familiarity in his voice as he smiled at her. Mim did, but she hid that recognition and tried to shove it down within herself, as his tone and gaze nettled gently at something she'd long thought buried. "Many of my men are now members of the Union, and I dare not go much into detail. Suffice it to say, a few ended up forgetting the lessons of gentlemanly conduct and decorum I drummed into their heads and fell into outright thuggery, but the rest are upstanding gentlemen, I assure you."

"I would presume that you also know what happened to the Hyena?" Mim asked with a crooked half-grin that, while still slightly troubled from the story, hinted at a lascivious and good humored ribbing. "After all, you _did_ mention she was strikingly beautiful."

Bart smiled with a startlingly broad grin, "But of course! She became known as an aboriginal princess of sorts and married one of my men when she retired from the Union. Or perhaps she retired to pursue the marriage? I was never truly clear on that..."

Mim chuckled as she considered his words for a long moment, taking a long drag from her cigarette and blowing it out her nose. Realizing she was down to the end of her smoke, she stubbed the little bit remaining and favored Bart with an unreadable gaze.

"You, Mr. Lipsky, are a conundrum." As the man stared, something took shape deep within Mim's eyes. The smile she suddenly favored him with set both alarm bells off within his mind, and incongruously, set his insides aflutter. "Your actions and words seem to be at odds, and every discussion seems to make the contrast more and more stark. But I must admit... I have become rather fond of these chats!" She paused, for some reason wanting to wait for the sudden tension she'd seen in his frame to relax. When it did, she continued, her tone playful yet heartfelt, "And, to be honest, I have come to feel some fo-..."

The sound of shouting at the door to the café startled both of them. They looked and saw perhaps two dozen Frenchmen stumble into the establishment, all in the midst of an argument that mingled heated words with fists, truncheons of various types and even the naked steel of blades...

**Authors' Notes**

Bart is quite the talker, isn't he? No wonder on where Drakken got his inability to stop talking from. Mim probably wouldn't have stood for it if it hadn't been subjects she wished to hear of, eh?

A lot of talking in this chapter, to be sure. But as you can see, the action's gonna pick up immediately in the next one. What in the world is going on? Well, let's just say a certain French period event caused a riot when two disagreeing sides came in contact with each other...

Next time, fighting! Dancing! Running! Waiting in line! Putting on make-up! All of this and more next time on A Touch of Warmth!


	5. Chapter 5

**Authors' Foreword**

Hey there everyone! We're terribly sorry for the delay, nearly a full year, but real life, including work, university classes and other sundry things kept us from giving as much attention to this fic as we really should have. That said, we put a bit extra into this chapter, so while it's larger, we feel it's the least the readers deserve! This chapter is part two of a three part series covering this particular year, due to some very important things that happen, so you can all look forward to a lot more soon, since we'll be more timely with the next chapters!

Magic Flying Spud: thank you for the incredibly kind words, we really appreciate them! As to Bart and Mim, well, one never knows what will happen in the future, non?

melissa Ivory: well, we like the back story as well, it's always important, especially when starting 'cold', with unexplored characters, as this fic did. Aglaya is a lovely name and we plan to have more of their interaction in the future.

noncynic: wow, um... Thanks, non! Coming from you that's one _hell_ of a compliment! And, as you can see, we have, indeed, kept at it!

Melisa20: hopefully your internal D/S shipper isn't too disappointed. But, please remember, we're not authors that believe in 'cookie cutter ancestors'. While there are _aspects_ of their future descendents in them, they are their own people, through and through. That said, we're both history buffs, so we're happy when someone else can enjoy the historical research that goes into a given fic.

Before we get on with the fic, we have to give a huge shoutout to AliceShade (her name on the IRC #kpforum chat) for pointing us to a historical fact that we'd completely overlooked, which is used in this chapter. Thank you very much for the advice, hon, it was greatly appreciated!

And now... The fic!

**MP-MP-MP-MP**

Bart stood staring at the four women, two rather effeminate men, and the two men and a woman, the latter grouped together and obviously of the theatric persuasion. They all had several items they wished to purchase from the beauty salon, some for gift giving, some for themselves. _This is _interminable_!_ he screamed in his mind, _How could these people be so indifferent to the needs of others?_

The answer, of course, was the fact that it was Christmas Eve. He sighed unobtrusively, not wishing for his own impatience to negatively impact those of innocent shoppers. _This would not have become a worry had those imbeciles not accosted us for being patrons at the café._ He grimaced slightly at the thought, adding with a mental sigh and a faint, self-satisfied smirk, _Or having opinions differing from theirs and the wherewithal to defend our position._ He was not a prejudiced man, at least when it came to thoughts such as religion, women's suffrage or racial equality, nor even those who had gained money or political power via honest means! He had, after all, met - and interacted with - women such as Miss Go and Miriam Possible and leader of the Namib Ghosts, and knew a few aristocrats of laudable mettle, even if those among the latter were few and far between.

But to start a fight of such violence - with naked steel no less! - in a place because the owner shared the same religious background as a military officer framed by his contemporaries and worse his superiors? It was the very same _madness_ that infected those dedicated to Imperial expansionism in his homeland and elsewhere! But, at least he and Mim had been able to stop the brigands before they could harm too many innocents...

_Bart reacted with startling speed, and stood in defense of his mealtime companion. With a twirl of efficient movement, he had donned his greatcoat while grabbing his cane, holding his hand out chivalrously for Mim. "I do believe we should take our leave, my dear!"_

"_I could not agree more!" Miriam had shouted over the sudden din as several more men poured in through the front door, shouting out slogans she guessed gleaned from _La Libre Parole_, if the anti-semitic bent of the words were accurate. To make matters worse, one of the groups, the quieter of the two, seemed to be quite handily outnumbered. "I cannot_ believe _our breakfast has been so _rudely_ interrupted, and by an argument over a military officer's trial, no less!" Mim's frustration had been palpable as she pushed back from the table slightly with her legs._

"_But it is about a good man falsely accused of treason!" Bart had objected ironically as Mim's arms slipped within her own coat, "And of course, his superiors attempting to cover up their own embarrassing complicity!" Mim had almost chuckled at his droll tone as her left arm shot through the straps of her handbag, shaking her head as if to stifle his words even as she took his hand. She'd then reached back to grab the stout umbrella she'd taken to carrying the prior year from its place on the back of her chair, unable to hold back a dark, agreeing chuckle as he concluded, "It is easy fodder for most people,_ especially _those who lean towards agreement with the latter, my dear!"_

"_And it is all quite disgusting, if you ask me!" Mim had added, her face flushed in anger as she glanced around at the room. The redhead quickly amended, "Though I feel that we may be privy to information the public does not know as of yet..."_

"_Regardless of what we do and do not know through our... Connections, I feel that the poor chap that has been had is still being unfairly treated. That is one thing I admire Americans for: the idea of one being innocent before proven guilty," Bart noted a few men listening in as he dodged around the flying body of one of the prejudicial louts._

"_Be that as it may, we do not have the time to debate it," Miriam had chided, still searching for a clear exit that was not a broken window or otherwise taken up by brawling men; her search bore fruit as she noticed, through the open door to the kitchen, that the rear door was wide open. Gesturing with her open hand and taking a few steps toward it, she'd blithely said, "To the rear door, my good gentleman?"_

_Bart had almost flinched as he heard Mim's familiar tone and the use of 'my', almost as if she had long ago laid claim to him. He was unknowingly feeling the same uncertainty she had earlier, and a similar need to shove it as deep into his consciousness as he could._ No need for such sentimentality, Bartholomew! _he'd admonished himself firmly,_ Even if she is attractive, witty and intelligent, she_ is _your nemesis, man!_ The argument still rang hollow in his mind, and he had wanted desperately to slap his face but fought the urge with alacrity. After the briefest of hesitations, he forced himself to speak aloud, agreeing firmly with her conclusion, "Post haste, my dear!"_ Nemesis or not, she is absolutely _stunning_ when riled up as she is now...

_They had dashed towards the rear door, behind a few of the more clear headed men and women from the café, but were stopped when those people began backpedaling from their seeming salvation. An animalistic snarl from a larg group had followed them, and Bart saw several people brawling in the back alley, "It looks to me as if we shall not find an escape!" Bart had growled, turning back towards the main door and the mess congesting the entryway._

"_Yes," Mim agreed, gripping the umbrella in her hand all the tighter. "It seems we might have to fight our way ou-..."_

_Her comment had been interrupted by a man screaming loudly and flying through the air towards her, a knife embedded to the hilt in his abdomen. She'd immediately dodged towards Bart, and he'd easily assisted her in dodging out of the way with a firm but not painful grip to her shoulder, his cane hanging by its lanyard from that wrist. She returned the favor an instant later by grabbing his opposite hand with her free hand and twisting him back around her the opposite way._

_They'd both looked to Bart's right and saw that the more aggressive, and apparently winning, side were pushing the brawl towards them. They then had to dodge towards Mim's back as a man stumbled drunkenly past them, splinters from a broken chair sticking from the side of his face. She saw someone from the rear of the establishment sailing through the air, tossed by a positively huge man after being knocked out. She'd twisted Bart around and then twisted again herself as someone apparently mistook her for a combatant and took a swipe at her with a blade._

_Bart had been rather incensed by this, bending down with his legs slightly. He then whipped his cane up above them, behind his head and over Mim's, the cane describing a perfect, semicircular arc until it was just above the other side of Min's head. The instant it was there, he had stood sharply and thrust with the cane, striking out snake-like in a perfectly straight line. He struck true to his target, the soft spot just below the thin man's collarbone, eliciting a cry from the other man. He felt Mim moving beside him, as if preparing to duck under his other arm, and lifted that arm and her hand up. At the same time he'd whipped the cane downwards in a circular motion, then back up and around in a half-verticle, half-horizontal arc to slam it into the side of the man's head, knocking him senseless. Meanwhile, Mim had easily slipped underneath the upraised arm and spun around, striking at a man who was lunging at her with a vicious looking right hook. Her blow landed first, her umbrella's handle striking true and impacting the point of his chin, sending the man into unconsciousness._

_The movements they had performed made them look for all the world like a couple waltzing... Except for the presence of their weapons, as emphasized when Bart brought his cane down sharply on the head of another man trying to stab Mim. He'd immediately pulled back on her arm as he saw yet another man diving towards her from what was currently her blind side, drawing his cane back and shoving it forwards. Mim, on the other hand, had seen another man Bart could not and flipped the grip she had on the umbrella._

_Bart's thrust, an almost insultingly basic fencing strike to his mind, took the man square in the breadbasket, and he was out with a quick, slicing blow to his temple. As soon as she was within Bart's arms, Mim's arm had swept out, the umbrella's crooked handle catching the man she had seen by the arm as he tried to bring an intact, unopened liquor bottle down on the back of Bart's head. When she felt his arm trapped in the handle's crook, she'd twisted the umbrella viciously. The muscles and tendons in her arm, strengthened by years of work on a farm - as both a hand and as a farrier - and her later adventurous lifestyle, conspired with the position of the umbrella's handle to easily snap the attacking Frenchman's forearm._

_As the man fell back with a scream, nearly all the action had seemed to halt. A moment later, one of his fellows had stepped up, an ugly glint in his eye. "Sir," he'd begged mockingly, his French accent heavy with derision, "Wit' zee way hyou and your lady are dancing, I hwonder what it hwould feel like to 'ave a go at 'er. 'Ow much iz she, eh?"_

_Bart and Mim had both stiffened, realizing that most of the fighting was finished save for a few vicious punches and kicks to already unconscious forms. Mim's eyes, despite the situation, had widened in an intense, disgusted rage, even as a rumble of offense had issued from Bart's throat, the hand holding his cane beginning to shake with fury. "Or zshould I zay, 'ow long can we 'ave 'er, since hyou bot' 'ave 'urt zsome of our comrades... And _zhe_ jus' broke my _brozerr's_ arm!"_

_Mim had opened her mouth to berate the man, but he seemed to have worked up a head of steam, "And no _real_ ladee _I_ know hwould know 'ow to pearform like _zshe_ 'as!" The man had spat on the ground at them, his words so startling in ignorance that the dining companions were struck speechless. A moment later, hearing no response, the man had narrowed his eyes, "Besides, hyou botzh seem to be, 'ow hyou zay, disagreeibell wit' our veiwpoint?" His smile, when it came then, made the glint in his eyes far uglier, "Zhe woult be a suitibell recompense for our... Troubles, non?"_

"_You_ dare _treat me as a lady of the night?" Mim had growled, the insult reverberating through her enough that she quivered in her rage. The scientist had been surprised, but quickly presumed the source of insult she felt lay in her thoroughly progressive mindset; the man had, after all, implied no woman could take care of herself without the skills often engendered from life on the streets. Bart also felt insulted, though part of it had been from the obvious disrespect the man had for women of that profession, while the larger share had come from the intentional disrespect he'd shown his dinner companion. Mim and Bart had let each other go, fully turning as one so they were shoulder to shoulder. "You can go to Hell!" Mim had snapped, then both of them had lunged at the same time to slam their now free fists into the man's face. He was knocked onto his rear by the blow, the back of his head striking solidly into a support beam. He seemed to be knocked out cold, but when his eyes had rolled up beyond his eyelids, Mim seemed to have felt a brief surge of worry. That was quickly allayed as she'd noticed he was still breathing, and she let out a mostly unobtrusive sigh of relief._

"_I believe we may have a problem with his fellows, my dear..." Bart had whispered, his voice shaking her from musing over the man's health. The amusement heavily lacing his voice had thrown her a bit until she had glanced around the café. Quickly counting, she came to, Bart had been certain, the same disparity of force he had: seventeen of the man's fellows had still been standing, most of them barely scratched from their brawl, with about five more starting to shake off their various minor hurts. "And I believe they may want to deliver a rather unpleasant beating to our persons." Any amusement dropped from his voice when he had softly added, "If not worse for you, and possibly the others still in the cafe."_

_Mim had nodded in agreement. The few patrons that hadn't managed to escape were huddled in the corners, fearful eyes wide as they stared at the anti-Dreyfusards that had apparently won the day, at least in the cafe. The anti-Dreyfusards had in turn stared with hateful glares at Bart and Mim, who were, in turn, dressed among the finest, if not _the_ finest, of those still in the café, something that seemed anathema to the plainly dressed men. Mim had smirked, shifting her grip on the sharkskin handle of her umbrella, "Most a pity, then, that I am not interested in obliging them."_

_She had returned her gaze to Bart, who nodded firmly as he favored the men surrounding them with a mockingly apologetic shrug and said, "I must apologize, _mes amis_, but as my companion so succinctly said a moment ago: 'You can go to Hell!'" Then he had turned his eyes back to Mim and smirked at her, speaking in German with a tone more in keeping with a sweetheart than with a nemesis, "Shall we dance, my dear Miriam?"_

_Bart's words, the use of her name in a conscious and pleasant manner and her position and actions with Bart had obviously settled into Mim's mind when he'd asked the question. The conclusion she'd reached had drawn a delighted smile to her face. She'd answered back in German, her tone every bit as warm as his, "I would love to, my dear Bartholomew!"_

_And so, with fists and feet, knees and elbows, cane and umbrella, stepping around, over and in some cases _using_ chairs and tables, they had danced with each other, taking barely ten minutes to thoroughly trounce the twenty-two men, while suffering only a few cuts, scrapes and bruises themselves..._

He shook his head out of the memory, immensely pleased to see the line in front of him down to the thespians... And they were paying! He reached into his pocket and withdrew a watch, and sagged slightly in relief; he had enough time to apply his own make up, dash to his waiting coach, and make it to his appointment on time. _Of course,_ he groused to himself with a sarcasm Miss Go would have appreciated, _I should hope for a miracle to happen, as 'on time' is considered 'more than fashionably late' by that woman__!_

**MP MP MP MP**

Bart rushed down the streets of Paris as fast as he could while maintaining proper etiquette. It was galling that the task he had set out to complete had taken as long as it had. The time which he'd allotted was quickly sucked away, even eating up time he'd set aside for other tasks! Worst of all, he hadn't even managed to get a new carriage! While a carriage was the form of rapid transport he'd have much preferred to use, his first had suffered a broken wheel, leaving him no access to others because the only company he trusted with discretion had all of their carriages rented... They had not even a horse for rent, which was _more_ galling! Of course, as his luck of the day had held, had he only finished his business at the salon as little as two minutes earlier...

He found it hard to believe, but it really did seem to take far too long to wait patiently at the local stores for all the customers in front of him to finish. Not that he begrudged the people their time, of course! But how was he to know that it would take _that_ long to finish a few small purchases? At least thinking back to the altercation at the café had eaten away at the interminable mental anguish the waiting had caused him. But that anguish had come back with a vengeance when he'd had to take time to put his purchase to use! While he considered his efforts to minimize the effects from the very altercation he'd thought back to as less than optimal, at least he was presentable.

Then he'd _had_ to contact one of his more nefarious acquaintances to arrange hydrogen for his airship. It was a chore, but one which needed finished post haste... But, of course, the acquaintance had been held up by the very same problem he'd suffered: waiting in line! Thus, the timing for their meeting had been off by nearly _ten minutes_, putting his _entire_ schedule in jeopardy! Bartholomew was a man who lived by his plans, doing everything in accordance with meticulously laid out schedules. He only planned for random factors when he felt they would be necessary - such as when he was a soldier on a campaign, or when dealing with a certain beautiful redhead - and random factors beyond his planning could be quite disastrous.

If those plans which had such meticulous detail were to be thrown out the window, one Mr. Bartholomew Lipsky was left a mess. The only solution to save himself would be to cut down time for other activities, a mess in and of itself when those very activities were included in the aforementioned meticulous planning. The messiest part was determining _which_ activity to cut time out of. He found all of it necessary, especially the dinner appointment he was rushing to. _There are times I feel I should take lessons from dear Miriam and her often doltish friend..._ Bart sighed at the thought, _After all, they seem to come out on top as much as I do! Sometimes more often..._ With that in mind, he contemplated the possibilities...

His exercises and stretches helped to keep him in tip-top shape. To remove or cut down time for those would most certainly be shooting himself in the foot later...

Providing time to simply think was absolutely needed, to plan further down the figurative road of life. If he didn't plan, he'd end up in just the predicament he had now! But, then, if he were to take a page from Miriam and Jon's book... _Not the time to contemplate _that_, Lipsky!_ he told himself firmly.

There was no chance of him ever cutting time out of reading his scientific journals and mystery magazines. Those were as much part of his needs for life as breathing. _But perhaps I could find a better time in the day to read them..._ he pondered, _Miss Go _did_ once mention I seemed to retain the information better reading before breakfast or between dinner and sleep._

He could always remove time to go over his various investments, perhaps even trust the fools in the family firm to handle the market for a day. That, however, was the path to laziness. It was also a bad move, considering the rather incompetent things the fellows his father had thought competent invested in. Honestly, purchasing the recipe for a simple foodstuff such as the Mexican taco? _Of course, Mr. Stoppable seemed rather taken with it... Perhaps I should make a note to find someone with a _competent_ fiscal mindset, and skills at _research_, as opposed to someone that will just jump at an idea... Someone I can trust, as well!_

His letters of correspondence to various other scientifically-minded fellows? He readily dismissed the idea; Bart was far enough behind on his long-distance discussions as it was. They may think him rude to put them off for more days or weeks than they already had.

Sleep? Yes, perhaps he could remove an hour or two - perhaps even _three_ in emergency circumstances - from his allotted ten hours for sleep. He never even used the entirety of it most days, instead waking after four to six and flailing about like a man possessed, his brain on fire with ideas and tactics he could use for later schemes. Often, after he had put his ideas to paper, sometimes he would get another two, or worse, he would doze at inopportune times... Yes, take two hours off of his normal ten, and allot five hours straight of sleep, with two naps of one and a half to two and a half hours.

Making the note to simply move everything ahead by however much he was behind and wake up an hour earlier the following day - while keeping in mind his thoughts on a solid sleep and nap schedule - Bart felt he had solved the scheduling problem rather handily. Now, whether his dinner companion would agree was an entirely different matter.

He sighed in a mix of relief and consternation as he alighted upon the street where his destination was located. He'd managed to distract himself quite handily while walking; while fortuitous, a quick glance at his watch showed he was at least ten minutes away at a brisk walk. Steeling himself to dash much of the distance, he was brought up short by a familiar, and oh-so-horribly timed voice calling out to him. "Mr. Lipsky, a brief word, if you please?"

Bart turned, the eye above his dueling scar twitching slightly as he spied the fool detective that followed his dear Miri-... His dear _opponent_ Miriam around. _How in the Devil has that man tracked me down?_ he asked himself, somehow managing to hold both his tongue and his civility in check. Nonetheless, his response was a bit shorter than absolute civility called for... However, considering his situation, he felt it was not unforgivable. "Mr. Stoppable."

"I was hoping to run into you today, Mr. Lipsky." Jon said with a nod, "I think you were party to the fight Miriam was involved with this morning? I'm asking because, frankly, she was a bit roughed up..."

The tone of the question was innocuous, but the wording struck Bart as subtly accusatory. _Did the fool consider Miriam unable to protect herself enough to stop a man, especially myself, from causing damage? And to question my honor? That is an offense to nearly everything I stand for!_ Bart felt the pressure rising in the fore of his mind to tear a strip or two off of the dolt, but then that very adjective for the blond filtered through Bart's mind._ Calmly, Bartholomew... This man_ does _seem to have problems with his own mother tongue from time to time..._ Even with that thought, however, the wording still struck Bart as grating. Thus he raised a challenging eyebrow at the blond and asked sharply, "And are you suggesting that I was the one that did so? Breaking a gentleman's agreement I have with Miriam and yourself?"

Jon blinked a few times, both at the question and the tone. He seemed to think on his words, and then grimaced as if determining something distasteful. He hurriedly eased his tone, holding his hands out in assurance, "Oh, not hardly, Mr. Lipsky! Sorry, sometimes I speak more freely than I mean to." Taking a pause to reword his question, or perhaps commentary - a pause that seemed interminably long to Bart - he finally asked, "I meant, is it true that you and she... Helped each other when you were attacked by a bunch of ruffians? And helped out other people in the process?

_What?_ Bart asked himself, feeling a might foolish in doing so. While his favorite adjective for the detective was well chosen, the reworded question had Bart feeling somewhat of a buffoon himself, if only in his own mind. Nonetheless, he felt the need to tell the overprotective sidekick just how foolish his own questioning was, "I can assure you that she likely would not have had need of my assistance, but since I was there, it seemed most appropros to lend it!" Bart half growled, "As you yourself have, I'm sure, discovered on many an occasion! But yes, I did assist her, as she did me." Pointing at his own face, and the makeup used to at least disguise the discoloration of bruises, if not the swelling, he needled the blond a bit, "As you can see, Miriam was not the only one to receive some punishment for being more open minded than the fools we fought!" Bart smirked slightly as his needling struck home, making the blond flush slightly in a mix of embarrassment and indignation.

"I, er..." Jon took a breath, surprising Bart by calming himself in short order. Where the scientist had been expecting, and had prepared for, a punch; when the detective held out a hand, however, he was unable to contain his surprise completely, "I'd like to thank you for helping her out. She sometimes gets in over her head, and it's nice to know that, at least during our truce, you have her back when she's with you."

Bart, unused to such compliments from the blond, shook the proffered hand, "Of course I did! I am a gentleman, and consider Miriam to be a gentlewoman of standing and honor. It was the least I could do, considering the situation."

"Well, thank you, still." As they let go of each other's hands, Jon leaned in slightly, almost as if in an aside, and murmured, "Do be mindful, Mr. Lipsky... Miriam left in somewhat of a huff to pursue you, and had asked a mutual acquaintance, a Mr. Poirot, to assist her in finding you. I think he had an ulterior motive in doing so, though."

Bart blinked and stared at the blond. He was about to ask what, exactly, Jon's purpose in warning him was, when he caught sight of Miss Go out of the corner of his eyes. She seemed a bit put out, if not outright annoyed, but neither with Bart himself or the blond... Well, perhaps a touch with the blond, but from what Bart had gathered about Miss Go and Jon's activities during their mutual truce, he could guess as to her annoyance. _Most likely with dear Miriam,_ Bart concluded with a conspiratorial grin to Jon. "Thank you." With that, he gave the barest of nods and smirks to Miss Go, stood back and nodded to Jon with a tip of his hat, and announced, "If you will excuse me, Mr. Stoppable, I do have a very important meeting to attend to. Good day!"

Bart turned and as soon as the crowd had swallowed him up, he doubled his pace. The _last_ thing he wished was for Miriam to discover where he was going and who he was meeting. The possible scandal was nothing compared to how the lady he... Admired would react to the woman he couldn't refuse, especially with their discussion being so recent.

Unfortunately, the haste in which he was travelling made him all the more noticeable to others, especially those who would recognize him. After all, it was a strange sight indeed for Bartholomew Lipsky to have mistimed things so drastically that he had to rush.

"Why Bartholomew Lipsky!" a clear tenor voice called out from behind him in German, making him halt in his tracks and curse his luck, "I have not seen you since you were heading back to our homeland. Tell me, Sir, how are your parents faring?"

Bart tried not to appear rushed as he replied to the small talk, the clock in the back of his mind ticking on almost fiendishly. He turned and tried not to grind his teeth as he saw a familiar, lanky figure standing next to a squat, muscular figure. In addition, he spotted a familiar redhead coming out of a medical store with a stout, pudgy and strangely familiar man. How was it he kept running into people he knew in the middle of the last dregs of a riot?

"My father passed away earlier this year. Mother is doing well," he replied curtly. The figures he hoped would not notice obviously did, peering at him curiously and talking animatedly. Bart would have preferred to call one of them on it, but to introduce them to these two would most certainly be inviting disaster. Instead, he winced and continued distractedly, "I see you are still a part of the Kaiser's army; you have become a major, and Karl is a captain now! Congratulations, both of you." Bart made a display of subtly checking his watch, and grimaced slightly, which added to the display and continued before either of the men could speak, "but I appear to be very late for an important dinner date."

He bowed to them before turning to leave, trotting off in the most dignified manner he could. Sadly, the casual observer would liken it more to a rabbit hopping away from a predator than anything else. Bart's fellows exchanged confused statements at his odd exit, having never witnessed the man do anything of the sort before. They eventually concluded he was meeting a girl as he'd never done that while in their unit either. While their continued discussions on military excursions in Africa held their attention completely, the redhead took off after Bart, leaving her companion to follow at a curiously more sedate pace.

**MP MP MP MP**

It was nearly twenty after five when Bartholomew finally made it to his destination. While_ La Porte du Ciel_ was not located in the most upscale part of town, those in the know would recognize it. It was far more posh inside than the simple outer door would indicate, giving a sense of privacy and secrecy to those who ate there. The chef, a man who was as bland in personality as his restaurant was fanciful, was one of the best self-taught French chefs in all of Europe. His restaurant was small enough that he could hire but a handful of waiters and sous chefs without causing problems.

It was not any sort of surprise to Bart when the woman requesting his presence for dinner named this restaurant as the meeting place. It was high-class enough to garner her favor, yet private enough to conduct possibly sensitive business in. He fervently hoped this dinner would not become such an affair - or, considering the alternative, hoped it _would_ - as he checked his name with the_ maître d'hôtel _at the front.

He was led into the restaurant by one of the small number of wait staff. Bart could feel his heart drop in his chest as he recognized the brownish-red tuft of hair and the overly elegant modern Victorian dress. It was a gift he had found for her birthday, a style created to simulate the dress which the Cossacks were known to wear. The white fur trim was overly done, as most upper-class dresses were, the collar flaring up enough to draw attention to the wearer's face as the lower part of the dress sat adorned with an overabundance of ribbons and semi-precious stones which highlighted the dress' red color. Of course, he had also ensured that several of the stones used were types of the mineral beryl, as would have fit anything this particular woman wore.

"You certainly took your time arriving, Bartholomew," the woman's crisp voice struck out like a viper. She, of course, did not move in any visible fashion other than how a _proper_ lady should.

Bart did his utmost to not cringe away from her obvious dissatisfaction. Trying not to rush from the growing panic bubbling in him, the gentleman did everything as properly as possible as he greeted the woman in front of him in earnest. Her slate grey eyes pierced his person, their bite as sharp as any bladed weapon, a proper pairing for her barbed tongue.

"My apologies for my tardiness." he murmured in the most sincere tone he could manage, feeling no small sense of relief as the woman merely took in his mode of dress - elegant and modern, though far less ostentatious than the woman in front of him would likely prefer - and nodded at his perfectly executed bow and flourish.

Those eyes that pierced him so easily were set in severe, serious face. She had cheekbones that could have shaved cheese, yet bore the softening touch of a natural, strangely fetching blush. That was combined with her rose-red lips, the effect completely natural to the bane of her detractors who would love to have caught her using kitzy theater tricks. One would have called the high-browed noblewoman almost ethereally beautiful if she hadn't been surrounded by an air of cool, perhaps even predatory, indifference. There was also a constant feeling of being looked down upon as unworthy of being in her presence, one which followed him even as he kissed her proffered, felt-gloved hand.

"Hello, my dear Bartholomew," she said almost warmly, though her face remained on the indomitable border between cool and cold. Her unchanging eyes, unfortunately for Bart, not betraying her feelings one way or the other.

Bart released her hand and straightened up to look her square in the eyes. "Hello...Mother." The appraising look she gave him took away most of the measly courage he had gathered for the meeting. He hadn't had the time to put the medical and cosmetic utilities he had purchased to their full use, instead only being able to apply a cursory amount. This helped to mask some of the bruising, but it did only the barest hint of hiding his busted lip nor the various gashes he'd acquired from broken bottles.

"Bartholomew, what happened to you?" she asked, her words feeling as sharp and dangerous as a knife at his throat.

"Nothing terribly untowards, Mother," he reassured her, mentally cursing as he tried to think of an acceptable way to phrase what happened. "I was merely standing up for the dignity of a luncheon companion."

"I... See..." She replied slowly, pursing her lips in dissatisfaction. Bart knew she was debating the indignity of getting into a scuffle with being honor-bound to defend a guest's honor. To his relief, a slight, accepting smile came to the rose red lips of his mother. "At least you seem to have come out the better, while standing up for proper values."

"Agreed," Bart said, withholding his relieved sigh by the barest of margins. He continued in hopes of filling the silence and keeping his mother from continuing her scrutiny to find all his other faults, if only for a minute. "Those ruffians dared to harass us while we were having a meal in celebration of the holiday."

"Oh?" his mother said with impeccably faked interest. "Do you and your friend often go out for lunch and drink whilst telling stories?"

"Drink while storytelling? Myself and Miss Possible?" he asked almost dumbfoundedly, forgetting precisely who he was talking to for a foolish moment. Bart hadn't even noticed that she had assumed the luncheons were a regular thing, or that he had met with her more than once. However, it slipped out too late for him to take back, the tone of familiarity between himself and Miriam. He could see the small, almost completely hidden shine of triumph in his mother's eye. Most wouldn't be able to see it, but he'd trained himself to notice the barely perceivable true gauges for her thoughts.

"My apologies, Bartholomew." There wasn't a hint of apology in her tone nor face as she attempted to look him in the eye. "I know you better than to think you would participate in mannish behaviors such as that with a lady. I had simply assumed, what with your tardiness, that you had forgotten me while talking to some working lowlifes."

While he knew better than to reply to her wheedling tone, a tone developed just to poke at him in his weakest points, Bart could not prevent himself from talking, compelled as he was by her gaze. But he could needle her back, and could do so almost as effectively, when provided the proper motivation. And his emotions - still raw from his earlier conversation with Miriam and the confusing emotions engendered by that meeting - gave him just that. "Mother, you know as well as I that I do not participate in such barbaric traditions! And the lady I was with, while merely a close acquaintance and sometimes breakfast or teatime companion, is not a woman I am courting."

He waited for his mother to draw a full breath, and just when her eyes hardened and she was about to speak, he leveled his counter at her, "Nor is she of low class, despite being an American. I will admit, she is of a rather... Fiery temperament, so I do not think you would like her, overmuch. So you need not be worried about public embarrassment to the family name."

His mother considered him for a small handful of seconds before speaking, "And you are not courting this woman?" The scoff was gently spoken, but held a core of iron, "I would think, my son, that based upon your past history you would be absolutely enamoured with her."

Bart barely withheld the desire to smirk triumphantly. It was rare that he managed to gain the upper hand with his mother, and he considered himself especially lucky that he had said 'Miss Possible' and not 'Miriam'. His quick rejoinder was proof he had won this small tête à tête, "And that is why she is merely an acquaintance, mother... She is most assuredly a woman you would not find appropriate for your son to court."

"All the more reason I had thought you were trying," she commented with a tight smile, recognizing she had lost the discussion and deciding to be a bad sport about it. "I had hoped you would finally understand the importance of finding a wife to settle down with. You have filled me with joy by presenting this news to me."

"I assure you once again, Miss Possible is not a lady I have that manner of interest in." he smiled in as disarming a fashion as he could, his voice even and pleasant, showing not the least feeling of triumph, "Merely a dinner companion. Do you honestly think, were I courting a woman, I would keep it from you?"

Mercy's smile faltered for a brief moment, before her eyes hardened, again in such a manner that of everyone in the restaurant, only Bart would likely notice. Raising an eyebrow, she glanced away, her gaze falling on an attractive, but far too gaudily overdressed teen girl, of obviously high stature, her gaze considering the girl as one would a prize horse. Bart caught the glance and saw the girl out of the corner of his eye, but felt a surge of relief when he realized his mother's wandering gaze meant missing the subtle worry that he felt crossing his features. Her words, when she finally spoke several seconds later, struck him deep in the heart, though they also allowed him to hide his concern under a blanket of cool indifference, one very much like his mother often used, "So, my dear son, does that mean that I must still find a lady who wishes to court you?"

"Mother, you misunderstand." Bart smoothly objected, allowing a wry smile to blossom on his face... And taking a small swallow, made unobtrusive as he sipped at the apéritif - a sweet, before meal liqueur tasting of honey and raspberries - that had already been waiting for him, "I am taking care in finding someone worthy of both myself_ and _the family name. Were I interested in courting Miss Possible, I would be forced to wait for some indeterminate time, as we both have suffered the loss of someone important to us; myself with the death of my dear Anna, and she, far more recently, her husband in combat in China during the Boxer Rebellion."

"I... See..." his mother narrowed her eyes at the disturbingly smooth counter from her highly intelligent, but oft, to her estimation, easy to read son. Her considering gaze held steady for a full minute and a half, yet Bart's firm, even gaze and serious eyes lent her to a hesitant, if grudging, acceptance of his words, "If you find no better woman to court, and if you two do indeed pass the... Acquaintanceship... I am assured you shall introduce her to me?"

"Of_ course_, Mother." Bart chortled, the more bombastic tone and smile typical of him expanding over his face. Mercy seemed to accept it as sincere, though a few pairs of eye narrowed at the tone and expression, "However, I assure you, Mother, that I am not ready to settle down." At Mercy's raised eyebrow, he elucidated with an easing of his smile, "I still have plans, Mother, that have yet to come to fruition. When they do, I can assure you, the name of Lipsky will be_ quite _revered..."

"Be that as it may, Bartholomew," his mother frowned at him, "I wish to know more than anything:_ when _will you be ready to court a woman?"

"I..." Bart started, only so sigh softly and shake his head, sipping at his apéritif before answering in an honest tone Mercy was unused to, "Frankly, Mother, at this time I do not know."

"If you could trust me, Bartholomew," Mercy frowned ever so slightly, "I can assure you that you_ would _find an appropriate, patient companion for life at the ball, were you to merely_ look_. I have several _fine_ ladies in mind..."

Bart, feeling annoyance at his mother's insistence of interfering, yet again, in his personal affairs, reined in his first, instinctual comment and sat back slightly in his chair. Cradling the liqueur easily and quite properly in his hand, he smirked at his mother, something he knew annoyed her to no end, and asked, "Will any of them be able to at least speak at anything close to intellectual parity with you, Mother, let alone myself? Obviously, I do not require a woman to be _my_ intellectual equal, but I would so_ dearly _enjoy finding a woman of at least my dear Anna's intellect, or preferably matching that of Miss Go, Miss Possible or even Mademoiselle Portier."

He waited for several long seconds, and when his mother began to regain her wits to speak, he pushed on with a proper, gentlemanly airy fashion, "Even if it were a woman lacking the singular fire of my dear Anna, intelligence is a_ must _for me, Mother! Of course, I would prefer to find a woman suited to your standards, as you dislike the aggressiveness of women like Miss Go and Miss Possible or the flightiness of women such as Mademoiselle Portier!" He paused to let that sink in, before asking with an earnestness that left his mother's eyes ever-so-slightly widened in surprise, "Or would you have me bored with a woman less than capable of holding my attentions? You_ have _always insisted that you wish for me to have a relationship like yours with Father, yes?"

The gaze Mercy leveled at him when her shock wore off was an even rarer thing for her: a fulminating gaze, heated and direct in its displeasure. It only intensified as Bart merely raised an eyebrow and murmured, "Take the girl you introduced me to last year... What was her name?" He sighed and looked up, twirling a finger in the air as if agitating his very memory, taking the last sip of his apéritif before suddenly snapping his fingers, "Oh, yes, Dominique!" He lowered a firmly disinterested gaze back to his mother, "An absolutely_ beautiful _girl, yes, but frankly, Mother?" He sat forward and set the empty glass down in a precise, final manner, "I was honestly shocked she possessed the mental acuity to remember how to breathe, she was so woefully lacking of wit..."

When Mercy sighed, he knew he had earned much in the way of understanding, much to his mother's obvious distaste. To drive the point home further, he sighed in an appropriately apologetic manner and added, "To whit: the past has borne out, Mother, the women that attend this ball tend towards the woefully average, if not outright vegetative! While I shall attend this _bal masqué_, I shall likely far from enjoy it unless there is, by some chance, people, man _or_ woman, with more intelligence that God himself gave the common snail!"

With another sigh, he bowed his head slightly before looking up, an apologetic smile on his face that he hoped hid the fear he felt at possibly overstepping his bounds. To counter any possible negative reaction to his mother, he thought of things that would have his mother happy, or at least, direct her anger away from him. With an internal start of surprise, the perfect topic struck him, and he changed the subject with an aplomb that Miss Go would have been proud of, "That being said, Mother, how goes the renovations on our summer home in Germany and the winter home in Greece? Our last correspondence indicated some progress had finally been made?"

Mercy was caught off guard by the topic change, enough that Bart knew he'd succeeded in distracting her from his blatant disobedience. With a sigh of her own that sounded more a growl, and a frown that, while not directed at him, chilled his blood, she conveyed her contempt of the so-called dunderheads in charge of the aforementioned renovations, "Well, Bartholomew, they are as close to institution-bound idiots as can be expected to be allowed in public!"

Bart hid a smirk at his successful ploy, least his mother discover his duplicity. He did let it blossom in his mind, and allowed himself a mental chuckle as he realized he'd picked up that bit of deceptive thought process from dear Miriam's companion. _I must thank Mr. Stoppable at some point,_ he concluded as he commented in woeful agreement with his mother's troubles back home, _His knack for distraction may have just saved my very life!_

**MP MP MP MP**

Sitting a few tables down from them in the perfect spot to watch them but not be easily noticed sat a certain redheaded reporter. Mim feigned reading the small, elaborate menu so as to use it to look over at the mother and son. Why they would want to meet in an odd place such as this she hadn't a clue, but the exclusive list nearly stopped her from being able to spy o... Rather, _observe_ them. She was just lucky that Monsieur Poirot and that little rascal were kind enough to help her out, even if it was to convince her to take on an undesirable task...

"_Curse that Bartholomew!" Miriam had growled to herself as she raced through the streets. Many members of the gendarmerie had been running around, trying to find those who had instigated the fighting that had started near the cafe she and Bart had eaten at. The fighting had turned into a running battle between sides, and while said fighting was slowly dying down, there were the occasional flare ups that drew the gendarmes from their primary task. Looking at the dwindling chaos simply reminded Mim of the borderline traitorous actions of her companion just a while before. _

_Their meal had ended but an hour before, but Mim feared that would be enough time for Bart to make his way to his appointment. When they had finished their routing of the ruffians at their-er,_ the _cafe, he had glanced at a watch and cried out in shock. "I am extraordinarily late for my next appointment!" he had commented angrily as he poked one of the instigators with the metal shod end of his cane._

"_Which appointment would that be?" she'd asked innocently enough._

"_One which does not concern you!" Bart had grumbled in a manner, far more snidely than normal for their meetings, "Now I must be off." At her simple opening of her mouth, he'd growled in an almost desperate tone, "I will not meet with anyone nefarious, so I must ask that you do_ not _follow me, my dear Miriam!" before running out of the cafe, leaving her in a confused state, at least until she realized what he must be doing, despite his protestations to the contrary._

"_Our truce is but a sham this Christmas, it seems..." Mim had finally sighed to herself as she ran through the town, hoping for a glimpse of the scarred villain. "Honestly, what could he be planning that would cause him to break such an agreement?"_

_She had considered some of the world events happening at that moment, wondering just which one would be important enough to try and complete it on Christmas. It was possible that he was involved in the rumbles of discontent in North Africa or even right in Europe... Then again, perhaps his target was in the Far East or India? But in order to find out, she had to _find_ him, and since she was certain that Jon was otherwise occupied, that left only _Monsieur_ Poirot... Who was, according to the housekeeper at the apartment he was occupying while in town, out and about._

_Mim's pace had slowed to a crawl, her boots scraping against the city's cobblestone streets in a fatigued manner. She had realized, to her annoyance, that she was making a foolish decision. What were the odds that she would actually manage to find Bartholomew in a city of this size when she had not the_ slightest _idea on what she was looking for? Just looking for a Germanic man in a city that had many German expatriates? No, she needed to be smarter about this. Mim needed to find or think of some manner to hunt him down with at least_ some _accuracy._

_It was then that she noticed she had stopped next to a small newspaper boy, his arms loaded with his daily papers for the masses. So abrupt had her appearance been that he stopped in his calling to stare at her in curiosity. Mim began to tell him off for his foolishness, being out in this state of danger, when she had a flash of a memory. _

_The boy reminded her of something... Something important in the city. No, a some_one_. Someone that could help-_

"_Eduardo!" Mim suddenly said, surprising both herself and the young boy who jumped from the break in the silence. However, a second later the boy sighed at her, looking disappointed._

"_No, Madam. I am not Eduardo," he had corrected in heavily accented English, his tone that of a long-suffering professor lecturing an ignorant student. "I am his brother, Miguel. We look similar, but are not the same person. You 'Mer'kins never tell the difference between us! Do we all look the same to you?"_

"'_Mer'kin?" she'd muttered to herself in confusion, then shook her head. Now was not the time to get caught up in odd, oddly offensive shorthand slang. Sighing in a put upon manner, Mim had ignored her own musings and stated, "Young man, I meant no insult, nor was I calling _you_ Eduardo, I was merely thinking aloud that you reminded me of him..." She had pursed her lips in thought, "In point of fact, I sorely wish you _were_ him, as I could use his services at the moment!"_

_The youth had grumbled something in Spanish that she had missed, before quipping in his heavily accented English, "I _do_ work for Eduardo, you know; I _could_ be of use if you told me what you need."_

_Mim had barely restrained the urge to snap at the boy for his attitude; without Jon's often random but startlingly effective detective capabilities, she was nearly at her wit's end. So instead, she asked in a faux sweet tone, "Perhaps, Miguel, you _could_ be of use. I am trying to find someone, and while I was able to tail him for a while, he slipped away from me. Now I am in search of a _Monsieur_ Poirot, a fairly well known-..."_

"_Private detective." Miguel half snickered at her, nodding, "As a matter of fact, _ma'am_," Mim had barely fought the urge to bristle at his tone, "I sold him a paper not two minutes ago, while he waited for coffee and a eclair at the cafe at the end of the block!" Miguel had nodded towards the cafe, and cocked his head, "That'll be ten _centimes_, if you please, ma'am."_

_Mim had bristled internally, but kept a calm face as she handed him five, raising a finger before he could protest, "You shall receive full payment _if_ he is still in the coffee shop..." Mim smirked as he mulled this over, and waited until she saw his eyes cloud over in preparation of protesting, "And I will not tell Eduardo that you are charging what amounts to highway robbery for such a simple request..."_

"_But, ma'am!" Miguel began to protest, but had stopped when Mim's face hardened and she squatted down slightly to look him straight in the eyes._

"_Miguel," she had said softly, her tone deadly serious, "Your brother is making a reputation of both fairness and honor here in Paris, a city known to be... Hesitant in accepting foreigners, yes?" Miguel nodded, if grudgingly, "Now, I know it annoys you that many people mistake you for him, but as I explained, my comment was less that than my own foolishness in thinking aloud, yes?" Another nod, "But if you keep on with this graft, you may ruin his name."_

_Mim had stood up and smiled down at the blushing youth, waiting for him to look at her. When he did, she winked at him and murmured, "Besides, there are far worse men you could be mistaken for; your brother is both attractive_ and _charming, and I could easily imagine you being much the same when you get older!" The teen had blushed and grumbled something in Spanish, once again too low for Mim to hear, but she had smiled and gestured towards the cafe, "Come along, then, Miguel!" After taking a few steps, she had turned and raised an eyebrow, "Unless you are not interested in the other five _centimes_?"_

_With a blushing grumble, the young man had followed her, and as it turned out, Monsieur Poirot had, indeed, been at the cafe... Standing at the bar and leaning against it with his odd, expectant smile, as if he'd been awaiting her arrival. He had looked up from the paper as he sipped his coffee, a twinkle in his eyes and a smile visibly curling the edges of his lips, as they were not hidden by the cup. After swallowing, he had reached up and removed his monocle, placing it in his breast pocket and called out in a jovial manner not often seen by the world at large, "Ah, good morning, Mademoiselle Possible, I was hoping to encounter you this morning!"_

_With a sigh and a shake of the head, Mim had walked over to the detective of quite some renown and stretched out her hand, stating in a bone dry tone, "As have I, _Monsieur_ Poirot..." After the brief pleasantry, she had turned to Miguel, fishing out the remaining five centimes and handed them off, "_Do_ try to remember what I said, Miguel, please and thank you?"_

"_Yes, ma'am." the boy said, a slightly blushing but chastised air about him as he accepted the coins and ran off to hawk his papers once again._

"_He is a good boy, but a bit overzealous in his attempts to match his brother," Poirot said with a slightly disapproving, somewhat resigned tone, though there was a spark of hope in his eyes, "I do think, however, that whatever it was you said to him has struck home; he is rarely so chagrined when I point out his faults."_

"_He is a young boy," Mim had murmured in agreement, "But an intelligent one. I do hope he takes my words to heart."_

"_So, _mademoiselle_," Poirot had raised an eyebrow, "I am fairly certain, what with seeing you disheveled against your norm and apparently seeking me out, that something of import has happened?"_

"_Yes," Mim had chuckled ruefully, "And I am certain that you heard I was involved in an earlier confrontation with the Anti-Dreyfusards in a Jewish owned cafe?"_

"_Ah, yes," Poirot had nodded sagely, "You and a _Monsieur_ Lipsky, both of you coming out much better than those that had accosted you." Pursing his lips, he had raised an eyebrow._

"_Yes..." Mim's voice was drawn out and troubled, "But I'm afraid that Mr. Lipsky may have become involved in something... Untoward."_

"_Ah! So that is what troubles you so," Poirot had stroked his chin briefly, before pointing in a vaguely south by southwest direction, "Perhaps, then, we should adjourn to your apartment, so you may change and feel less put upon by the situation, before seeking out _Monsieur_ Lipsky? I'm certain that _Monsieur_ Stoppable shall be happy to assist, or at least give advice, to you..."_

_As luck would have it, Poirot had rented a carriage - apparently at the last minute, since it had been the only one available - and was able to get them to Mim's apartment in short order. They had found an unaccountably anxious Jon there, and he had, indeed, given them some advice that even Poirot admitted would have been his second guess._

_They had made haste to follow Jon's suggestions. Those very suggestions had led them halfway across Paris from east to west, and then halfway down from northwest to the south-southwest section of the grand city, into a less than upscale section._

_Which had lead her to getting ahead of both herself and _Monsieur_ Poirot and straight into an argument with a pompous ass of a _maître d'hôtel_, who had possessed the temerity to suggest she was lying... All without saying so, of course! "My apologies, _Mademoiselle_, but you must be in the book to gain entrance to this establishment!" the maître d'hôtel had boldly proclaimed, with no attendant hint of sincerity in his overbearing French accented English._

"_How does one get themselves in the book?" she had asked in French with a sneer of her own, "I know this place is not fond of... Greasing, have you will, but I do remember being placed in that very book when I was invited here by a patr-..."_

"_While you are right, bribes are impossible." He'd glanced down his nose at her, smiling in a manner of a relatively poor man having something to lord over one with money, "No, you have no presence in the book! Therefore you have none here..." The man had paused, adding after an indignant sniff of his large, almost proudly ostentatious nose, "But, since it requires an endorsement from a person currently in the book..." He had smirked and paused, adding an almost unbearable insult by speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, "I would assume, if what you _claim_ is true about being here in the past, that you know of someone here who is a current member, yes? The gentleman who walked in but a minute ahead of you, perhaps? You looked to be wanting to catch him in particular."_

"_Yes..." Mim answered hesitantly, "I know him..."_

"_Then it would be a simple matter of myself going and asking if he would like to endor-.."_

"_No!" she said a bit too loudly. The look in the maitre de's eyes changed to one which made Mim feel as if she were now but an unimportant speck, a very unwelcome and offensive change. "The man I _should_ be listed with i-..."_

"_I'm sorry, _Mademoiselle_," the waiter had once again sniffed at her, "Since you are most certainly _not_ on the list, I will have to ask you to-..." he suddenly cut himself off when someone entered the establishment just behind Mim. "Ah! _Monsieur _Poirot! Always a pleasure. How are you faring in the world?"_

_The pudgy detective gave a jovial laugh as he answered, "The world is, of course, very kind. I am making it a better place from criminal elements, after all."_

"_Very true, Sir. However..." Lowering his voice in a form of secrecy yet completely ignoring Miriam's presence, he added, "I had heard rumors... Those who I think would be in the know, if you get my drift... That you are to be retiring soon?"_

"_Oh? I find this to be interesting news," Poirot answered with what appeared to be genuine surprise. "I would not have thought myself to be so disposable." The worried crease in the _maître d'hôtel's_ forehead caused the Belgian to tsk. "Do not worry for your secrets which you were so kind to share with me, Noël. I shall not speak them without cause, and you will not be named if I must speak of them!"_

_The sigh of relief was both visible and audible as the man let loose his tensions. Putting on his professional mask once more, he asked, "Would you care for your usual table if it pleases you?"_

"_No, _grazie_. I have been very strapped for time as of late, and can only spare a few minutes..." Poirot said with a great deal of regret, his stomach joining in his lament with a light gurgle. "Ah. Pardon me. My stomach, it acts up at the wrong times." Catching the other man's curious gaze, the former Belgian policeman had motioned toward Miriam, who had been standing by, observing their curious conversation. "My true reason for coming I had wanted to - again, so it seems - endorse _Mademoiselle_ Possible here..."_

After he had told her how the club worked briefly yet thoroughly in the past, and that it had not much changed since then, Poirot insisted that he had to leave her to her hero and villain game. His last comment before walking out the door bugged her more than it should've, and she still wondered why it had. _What did he mean about 'young love'? I am most certainly not enthralled with anyone at the moment!_ Mim thought peevishly as she tried to find the best angle to observe her German quarry while still remaining out of his sight.

Miriam pursed her lips as she thought on what she was watching. It seemed odd to her that he would consider his relationship with his mother to be a dark, distasteful thing. At first glance, it looked to be a perfectly fine relation. He, the respectful son, was listening to his mother who was worried for his well-being and asking for his presence at their family's yearly gala.

However, Mim had become familiar on a personal level with Bart over the last few years. She could tell that he was not acting as himself. His back was painfully straight, his manners impeccable to a fault. And there was a distinct aura radiating from him that she could never remember seeing before. It sucked his confidence away and left him looking much like an exposed child.

His mother, for her part, was extraordinarily impersonal with her words. There wasn't even a drop of maternal love in all of their dinner. It felt as if she were speaking to a stranger who was named 'Son' instead of the child she had brought into the world.

Then Mim realized just what it was. What the problem with Bart was. Why he was acting so odd. She hadn't recognized it at first, the emotion being a complete foreigner to his personage.

Bartholomew Lipsky was dining with his mother drenched in an air of pure terror.

She hadn't the foggiest idea what he had been trying to say during their meal earlier that day. His incoherent attempts to try and explain his relationship with his mother felt like an out of character attempt to convince her of how horrid she was. However, seeing him now, interacting with the woman who she hadn't realized was his mother, gave her an indescribable sick feeling. Somehow, now she _knew_ what he'd meant, what he'd been trying to say before. Mim couldn't think of the words to describe it either. They were too many disconnected things to truly connect...

Submission. Regression. Meekness. _Fear_.

She would have never believed Bart capable of _experiencing_ most of those emotions, let alone having them all in one sweeping, painful display. It was truly nauseating to see him trying so hard to keep from angering the person he hated most in the world. Her heart constricted painfully as he gave his mother a tight smile.

Suddenly, a conversation behind her picked up, with much boisterous laughter; it had only drawn her attention for a few seconds, but when she glanced back, Bart had said something that had made him blanch. His mother's attention was not on him, however, and he was recovering as fast as he slipped, a bashful smile creeping up his face joining the out-of-place blush. _Curious..._ Mim thought as she sipped her tea. _I wonder what must have been said...?_

A moment later it was made obvious as to his mother's side of the conversation. Her attention settled on several well dressed, rather attractive girls and young ladies in the establishment. Some of the women, it was obvious, had life choices more in keeping with her friend Isabella than being rich ladies awaiting courting, but well over half were just as obviously the latter. As their conversation picked up, Mim was driven to surprise as Bart's passive emotional stance changed, and he began to discuss the women his mother had tried to force him into courting.

She barely hid a wince as she ordered from the menu almost by rote, paying more attention to the conversation so few tables away. That Bart had so little patience for the flighty, easily distracted women of aristocracy was not much of a surprise, but the vehemence for which he held those views was indeed! As she listened, she began to understand a bit more about her foe. His tastes in the fairer sex were, obviously, stimulating to say the least. But to hear him describe the _type_ of woman he wanted gave her the vague sense of familiarity, a pleasant crawling of her skin, as if goosebumps were spreading, as she thought he could very well be describing herself or Ms. Go. That pleasant crawling became a deep blush that gave her stomach the invigorating sensation of falling while holding a rope as he compared her own intellect to that of the sharp witted Ms. Go! That sensation only intensified as she realized that he had solidly implied that he found their intellect as stimulating, perhaps _more_ so, than his dear, departed Anna!

She could not help but wonder as to why... He was her _nemesis_, was he not? And, yet... The idea of him taking an interest in her was anything but disgusting. In fact, it was nearly the opposite; had both their wounds not been so fresh, and their stances on justice been so opposed, she may very well have pursued him in earnest! From how the conversation had sounded, though, she would need to meet with the terror of a matriarch if she were to even have a chance.

The thought suddenly clicking with something she had heard, Mim pulled out what Poirot had given her before she chased down Bart: two invitations to a bore of a ball which was filled with people he found to be, in his own words, _voyous désagréables_. With very little surprise, she found the tickets to match the ball Bartholomew and Mercy Lipsky were attending.

"Damn you, Mr. Poirot..." she cursed in a fond manner, shaking her head in amused wonder, "You despicably clever man!"

**Authors' Notes**

And there you go, ladies and gentlemen! A bit of flashback to earlier in the day for our gentlewoman hero and gentleman villain, working together against a common foe for the two of them, and against Bart's ability to slip away for Mim! Kinda sneaky of Jon to offer Mim advice and then warn Bart of what was happening, non?

Then there's Mercy Lipsky... Complex, intelligent, cool and calculating, all wrapped in the trappings of a proper lady. Is there any wonder Bart is unnerved to be in her very presence? And yet, he managed to turn the tables on her and kept himself out of the hot seat by using just a bit of our favorite Pinkerton's skillset! And then, of course, there's the inestimable M. Poirot, the sneaky, cunning and in Mim's words, '...despicably clever man!' that he is! What is his game, in securing invitations for not only Miriam, but Jon to a ball meant for the truly high class? Only he knows, and, as he always does, he's playing things _very_ close to the vest!

Next time, discussions, collusion, petulance, surprise, quiet arguments and startling conclusions! All this and more, in the next time in A Touch of Warmth!


End file.
